#the stars of whistling ridge

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

BRO I'VE BEEN HOLDING BACK CAUSE I THOUGHT YOU'D ALREADY HAVE TOO MANP CAP. MACTAVISH REQUESTS I-

I'm here to rectify this issue immediately, how about one with him and the reader being soft? something bout seeing this rugged man melt when he comes home to his darling just egIUAfosnkew IT'S SO SWEET

—Look At The Stars; Look At Me

⇢ ˗ˏˋ 5k Drabble Masterlist ࿐ྂ

╰┈➤ ❝ [Stargazing in the middle of an overgrown and wild glade.] ❞

You breathe slowly, eyes gazing longingly far above you at the twinkling lights. They take up your pupils in the low glow of the moon—the dots of those far-off globes of hydrogen and helium shining bright. 

The glade behind the hidden forest home is filled with the scent of wildflowers, grass, and the grind of fresh earth; it captures your nostrils as the fireflies come out to dance on iridescent wings. Under you, John’s blanket lets you be just the tiniest bit closer to him for the moment, limbs loose, sleep-clothes compliant to the flow of the breeze as it spreads a whisper through the leaves. 

A deer snorts downwind, a low call over the air that can be felt in the gentle quiet. Crickets creak like the old floorboards of a lived-in home. You’re eased by the knowledge that, as your Lover drives back to this place—back to you—he’s under the same stars as the ones you gawk at in the skin of an awe-drunk woman who loves him more than even this. 

A car pulls down the worn-grass road, and you hear the brakes lightly squeak on that shitty rental, a smile twitches along your face, but you don’t move.

He knows where to find you this late; knows you wouldn’t go to sleep when he’d called you not two hours earlier to say he’s back. 

The both of you are stubborn and know the other more than a priest knows his own God.

A soft whistle lets you know he’ll be there in a moment, coming from behind the treeline before the sound of a car door getting closed echoes. The birds pause for a moment, though not seconds later they re-start their bedtime symphonies. 

There’s a rustling, and your heart picks up the pace gradually, excitement making your lips peel slowly back into a wide smile as you gaze at the Herdsman and his glittering Arcturus star. Painting pictures in your mind, you think of the untold number of things he’s seen from his deep-space throne as your lover returns like a lumbering hound, already hearing his large sigh at the sight of you. 

You don’t shift your gaze until an accented comment makes you chuckle. 

“Bit of a cold night to be doin’ this,” John’s face peaks into your field of view, leaning above you with his arms crossed—one of those dark brows raised.

He looks worse for wear with a big bruise over the left side of his jaw, and medical tape on his dark eyebrow ridge. The scar is still there, over his left eye; his orbs that continue to glint more than the stars ever could in your gaze. 

You hum in your throat, blinking up at him with a tilted nose. 

“What?” Your voice makes the hardness of his face dim, a small sigh through his nostrils as if he could never truly get out of that version of himself without hearing you speak first. “Did you expect me to miss a view like this?”

He scoffs, tilting his head. “I’m not that much of an idiot. Move it.”

You smile widely, staying directly in the middle of his blanket as a smirk slashes the Captain’s lips, his blues deepening. A bird darts away from above his head. 

“Already misbehaving, then? Not a good start, Little Lady.” 

“I was here first, MacTavish.” He makes an amused noise in his throat, moving his hands from his arms to grasp under yours. You squeal, laughing loudly as he drags you up with a low chuckle into his large shirt and tucked pants. 

“Aye, you were here first,” he brings you up into his arms—a bridal hold that leads you to wrap your arms around his neck as you shake with glee, burying your head into his flesh. “Never said you weren’t.” Lips whisper into your ear and he can feel your smile as it spreads against him. “But you’ve got to pick your battles wisely, eh? I’m the one who can carry you on my arm.”

You kiss his neck a few times, quick kisses in between mutterings of love; his beard shifts as he lets a small smile, amusement lingering yet dimming for something far more important. The word seems more alive than it had moments ago, but that’s not a bad thing. No, not at all. 

“What’s the point of interest tonight, then?” He slips off his boots and walks you back onto the blanket, smoothing it out with his foot before he grunts and settles down—you in his lap. “I’ve lost where we were last time.”

“The Herdsman, John,” you remind gently, pushing on his chest so he lays back with no argument, shifting you into the crook of his right arm as it circles you. He gently squeezes and presses you tighter. 

On his chest you place your head, arm snaking around his waist to suck in his warmth with a soft sigh.

“Ah, that’s right. Herdsman.”

He kisses your forehead, digging his nose into you and closing his eyes softly. None of the stars could compare to the one in his arms—he’ll leave the gazing to you in the meantime. 

Your body in the gap between his arm was all he needed. 

TAGS:

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#cod #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #x female reader #call of duty x you #captain mactavish x reader #captain mactavish #captain john mactavish #john mactavish x you #john soap mactavish #john mactavish x reader #soap call of duty #soap mactavish #soap cod #soap x reader #x fem!reader #john mactavish

[polakina]

on his knees for you

pairing: javier escuella x reader

rating: mature

outline: a robbery goes sideways, and your already rocky friendship with a fellow camp mate is put to the test as you evade the guards of Van Horn

warnings: cursing, so much bickering, canon-typical gore and violence, flirting, slightly suggestive (this is by far the tamest thing i've ever written)

requests are open! hope you enjoy, petals <3

a/n: i can't believe how many notifications i've gotten about my works over the past week. its fucking crazy. thank you so much, you're all absolute stars

masterlist

II

It was a simple job, really. Get in, steal the bonds, and get out.

But nothing ever went as simple as the original plan, did it? Not with the Van Der Linde gang. There was always a little bit of improvisation to be had. Which was exactly what you were doing right now.

Bullets firing past your ears, blood running down your leg, the target’s personal guards chasing you down the winding paths of Roanoke Ridge.

-

One day earlier.

The plan was set. Arthur, Bill and Lenny were to infiltrate the building and steal the bonds, while Micah and Charles handled the guards. You and Javier were on lookout, posted at the entrance gates. 

You were all stationed just outside of Van Horn, your target being the mansion and its occupiers. Trelawny had brought intel of bonds on their way through Van Horn to Annesburg, stopping off at the mansion overnight. Roanoke wasn’t a place anyone wanted to be caught up in at night.

“It’s fucking freezing out here,” you muttered, leaning further against your horse, absorbing his body heat as much as you could. It had been hours of waiting around and checking on the mansion. No movement whatsoever since the sun began to set. Darkness was nearing and the coach was nowhere to be seen.

Javier stood beside you, rifle in hand, eyes fixated on the road to the right, where the coach should appear from. “Want my poncho?” He asked, glancing at you briefly.

You didn’t even cast him a look as you responded. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your style, Escuella. I think I’ll survive without it.” You sighed, and moved from your position, heading further down the road, hiding in the trees to watch from a different position, seeing the road winding down Roanoke Ridge to New Hanover.

The two of you had never gotten along. He didn’t like your attitude one bit. You were snarky, cold. Something you’d developed after years of running with Arthur and John. He’d try and make conversation, you’d brush it off. He’d invite you on a fishing or hunting trip, you’d decline and say you preferred to hunt alone. He couldn’t win. You never sat with the camp during his songs or meals, you were always perched somewhere else, keeping lookout. That’s what you did. That’s all you ever did. 

So after a few months, he gave up. Not exactly understanding your harshness to him, he just accepted it instead. He returned your cold comments and your mean stares. Years passed and you bickered like enemies living beside one another. 

You whistled out to the group as you spotted the coach. Your whistle blended with the birds, so it was undetected by the gourds watching the bonds.

Everything went smoothly, Arthur, Lenny and Bill making quick work of breaking into the bonds lock box, and you heard the guards grunting and groaning as they hit the floor from Micah and Bill’s attacks.

Through your scope, you spotted as the boys grabbed the bonds, throwing them into their satchels. Drifting your rifle along the side of the mansion, you sensed something wrong with Bill. He was arguing with Micah. More so than usual. 

“What’s going on?” Javier whispered, lying beside you, hidden between the trees.

You shushed him, focusing on Bill. Their argument grew even more heated, and you caught a glimpse of lantern light behind them. You watched as they turned, cursing loudly before returning fire. Micah had scurried off during the brawl with the guards, seeking other treasures and getting himself caught in a scuff with guardsmen minding their own business.

“Shit, shit,” Javier cursed, throwing an arm over you and holding you down, protecting your head as bullets fired your way. “He can’t keep his head for one mission, puta madre!”

Arthur had ordered for, if the mission went south; which you had good money on it that it did, that you scatter. Split up and evade Van Horn at all costs, go the long way around New Hanover until it was safe to return back to camp so you were sure you weren’t followed. 

They had the bonds, all they needed to do was escape without getting caught. But you wouldn’t have minded if Micah got murdered in the. Just when you thought he’d found your last nerve, he managed to hit another one.

“I think this is our cue to leave,” you said through gritted teeth, pushing yourself onto your feet and grabbing your gear. Javier was on your heels, close behind. You hiked deeper into Murfree Brood territory, constantly keeping an eye over your shoulders for lantern light.

“Our safest path is through Roanoke,” Javier said from behind you, following your path through the trees. “The guards won’t dare follow us through there this late at night.”

You halted suddenly, whipping around to face Javier. He was caught off guard, almost stumbling into you, a surprised expression on his face. “Are you crazy, Escuella? Murfree Brood hunt here at night. If it’s not the guards who get us, it’ll be them. And I’d rather take my chances with bullets rather than-”

A bullet shot through the wind, straight through your leg into the tree behind you. It caught your words in your throat and you almost crumbled to the ground under the pain firing down your leg. Javier didn’t even blink as he wrapped an arm around you, catching you before you fell. He pulled his gun from its holster at his hip, pointing it over your shoulder and firing it straight into the head of the guard who fired at you first.

It drew attention. Of course, it did. Javier pulled you away from the scene, down the winding path leading to New Hanover. His arm stayed firmly around your waist, and you tried to hold in your groans of pain as your feet collided with uneven terrain, worsening the sting of the wound.

You both heard voices, coming from the top of the hill of which you had just descended. Javier pulled you around a large oak tree, pushing your body against the bark which pulled a pained gasp from your lips. “Fucking hell, Javier. At least try to be gentler with-” His hand clamped over your mouth, his body pressed against yours as he looked past the tree trunk to the guards making their way past you, checking their surroundings as they went. 

“You need to learn to shut up once in a while,” he whispered, looking back to you. His hat was tipped down his head, shielding his eyes. “I’m trying to save you and you’re still complaining.”

You looked up at him, your mouth still firmly covered, your hand wrapped around his wrist, instinct from when he shut you up. He smelled of whiskey and firewood, his scent filling your nostrils. His hand wrapped around your waist protectively, tightening as the footsteps grew closer.

Pulling his hand down, you noticed his skin never left yours. It rested around your neck. Softly, no pressure in his fingers, but the heat of his palm burned against your pulse, and he felt your heart rate jump. “Thought you would have wanted to get rid of me, Escuella,” you whispered, looking up at him. 

But he just looked down at you, surprised. “What?”

“Get rid of me. Hand me off to some guards searching through half the woods for us.” Your gaze never wavered. “Would certainly save you the trouble of dealing with me back at camp.”

He just smirked, tilting his head up, his eyes turned down to look at you. “And why would I want to get rid of you? Perhaps I enjoy the trouble you cause me. Ever thought about that?” His eyebrows raised as you stood there, unable to form words. “So are you going to  shut up and behave yourself while I get you out of here? Or are you going to keep talking until they figure out where we are?”

Javier waited for your response, but it never came. You just bowed your head, sealing your lips in a thin line. He took that as a sign that you’d ‘shut up and behave’. 

The men eventually left, abandoning their search for you, leaving both you and Javier a window of opportunity to flee.

-

The sun poked out above the trees from the makeshift camp Javier had set up in New Hanover. You were shielded by the canopy of branches, the fire in front of you keeping you warm. But it wasn’t doing anything good for the bullet wound in your leg. You stretched out your leg, wincing at the pain shooting through your body.

“I told you not to try and fix it by yourself,” you heard Javier say as he emerged with an armful of firewood, dropping it by your bags. “Your hands will shake before you’ve finished stitching it.”

You glared up at him. “Would you suggest I just leave it? Cut my leg off?”

Javier rolled his eyes at you, kneeling in front of you, his knees on either side of your wounded leg. “I would suggest…that you should wait for me. I’ll stitch it for you.”

Pulling his knife from the holster at his ankle, he sliced the blade through the fabric of your pant leg like butter. All the way up to your hip. “Hey!” You called out. “They were new pants.”

“I’ll buy you a replacement. Now shut up.” He was always harsh with his words, but now, it was even more so. A slight pang of worry soaked his tone.

“You’re such an ass sometimes-ow!” His fingers pushed against the wound on your leg, blood pooling out to the floor. “The fuck was that for?”

He looked indifferent as he looked up at you. “Feeling for any shrapnel. You don’t have any, thankfully, or else this would have hurt a lot more than its about to.”

“I could have told you that,” you grimaced as he began cleaning the wound. Applying pressure to one end of the bullet hole only forced blood through the other side. You could see both the entry point and exit point of the wound, stretching across the left and right sides of your leg.

You were both silent as he cleaned your leg, but you gasped as he pulled out a needle. He saw a panicked flash across your face, seeing it appear as quickly as it fled. “Easy,” he soothed, patting your knee. “I’ll be quick. You won’t feel it.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you whispered, your eyes only focused on the needle.

He sighed, leaning closer, tipping your chin up to meet his softened gaze. “Okay. You will feel it. But not much. A bee sting, that’s all it feels like. But it’ll be easier if you lie down.”

“Why?”

“Your muscles tense when you sit upright. You could at least be comfortable while I stitch you up.” He helped you into a more comfortable position. Javier still straddled your shin, one of his hands pressed against your thigh while his other stitched the hole closed. You laid there, his poncho acting as your pillow as you looked up at the trees.

You ignored the sting you felt each time the needle pierced your skin. Javier wasn’t wrong, it did feel like a bee sting. What’s more important, was that you could manage that sort of pain. “Thank you,” you said quietly, but you weren’t certain he heard you at first, until the needle stopped in your skin, his actions immoveable. Lifting your head and straining your neck, you met his eye. There was a small smile on his face, the corners of his moustache turned upwards with his laugh lines driven deep into his skin. You always did like his smile. That was the one thing that never changed about him. 

“It’s the least I can do,” he smiled, turning his attention back to your stitches. “It’s sort of my fault you got shot in the first place.”

“Sort of? You mean ‘entirely’?” You laughed as he playfully slapped your other leg with the back of his hand.

“Quit laughing,” he chuckled with you. “Or I’ll end up stabbing you in the wrong place.”

He finished quickly, wiping away any trace of blood before gently bandaging your leg. His soft touch lingered for a little while, his thumb gently rubbing soothing patterns into your skin. Your breath stopped in your throat as his touch rose higher. Higher up your thigh. To where your thigh met your hip. He was so fixated on it, he didn’t realise what he was doing until he felt your pulse beating at an ungodly rate at the top of your inner thigh.

His eyes flicked up to yours, where you laid, patiently. You were curious what sorts of thoughts were running through his head right now. What sort of cogs were turning in that brain of his.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your face closer to his than it had ever been before. “What?” You coaxed, too curious to keep quiet now.

“Nothing,” he moved to lean back, his hands drifting down your thighs, but they never left your body before you grabbed the front of his shirt, holding him in place.

“What did I say? Don’t lie to me, Javier.” Your voice never raised above a whisper. It didn’t need to. You were so close a whisper felt like a shout.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t speak. The close proximity had rendered him faulty in speech. So instead he closed the gap. His lips touched yours, his body melting against your touch. You didn’t expect it. All those years of bickering. All those years of cruel comments and nasty looks. Nothing prepared you for this. But you welcomed it.

Javier leaned you back, your head meeting the poncho  as you felt his body settle on top of yours. Breaking away for air, you saw a softened, kinder look in his eye when he looked at you. “Is this your apology for me getting shot?” You asked, smiling against his lips as he kissed you once more.

“Is it working?” His lips moved to your neck, hovering above your skin to a point where it tickled.

“Hmm…maybe.” 

“Then perhaps I’ll try a different angle,” he smirked, unbuttoning your pants, encapturing your lips in a soft kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. He had a lot of making up to do.

#fluff #smut #fanfiction #fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption x reader #javier escuella smut #javier escuella rdr2 #javier escuella x reader #javier escuella #rdr2 smut #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption two #red dead fandom

[tropes-and-tales]

A Hundred and One Nights

Characters:  Yautja/Predator x f!reader

CW:  Talk of injuries and illness; talk of death; yearning.  No smut.

Word Count:  4819

Other Pieces:  There is a part two here.

The Yautja aren’t above making mistakes.  When they kidnap a number of elite soldiers and killers from Earth to hunt, you somehow get swept up too.

You, a high school English teacher.  The only things you’ve ever killed are centipedes and a squirrel once that ran under your tires as you drove down the street.  

You were not a killer.

It doesn’t stop the Yautja from making the mistake, which is why you wake up suddenly.  Falling.  Free-falling through a blue sky.  

You’re in a parachute, and it engages just a beat too late.  You crash through the tree cover and land in the underbrush, hard.  You snap your ankle, and the pain that lances through you is so sharp, so urgent, that you finally realize that you aren’t dreaming at all.

-----

There’s others.  They find you.

They leave you.

“She’d only slow us down,” says the one man.  He turns away without a second glance.

“We’ll come back for you,” promises the woman, but she doesn’t meet your eye when she says it.

You wait until they are out of earshot to start crying.  You’re scared and hurt and you have no idea where you are.

But once you’re done, you swipe away your tears and try to come up with a plan.

-----

You were a Girl Scout, so you know basic first aid.  Bush first aid.  You had the badge to prove it.

You snap a few sticks, tear off the bottom hem of your shirt.  You create a rough splint for your ankle, and then you find another, sturdier stick that is forked at the end:  a rough crutch.

It hurts so badly, and progress is slow.  You hobble through the jungle and every step is fraught.  The ground is uneven.  

In the distance, you hear screams, snarls.  You hear a high-pitched whistle.

You have no idea where you are, but some primal part of your brain is activated:  you are in danger, and every cell in your body knows it.

-----

It’s hard to know how much time passes.  

The first night, you make it to the edge of the jungle just as darkness falls.  The stars are in configurations that you’ve never seen before, and your first thought is that you’re in the southern hemisphere.

Moments later, the moon appears over the ridge.

Then a second moon, and later that night, a third.

-----

It’s hard to know how much time passes.

You can do without food for quite a while, but water becomes a problem.  The planet is hot and humid and you sweat so much, and your mouth takes on a desperately dry, sticky quality.

You hobble onward.  You pass another human, a corpse that looks like it’s been there a while.  You’d throw up but your stomach is empty, so it only cramps painfully until you get away from the smell.

You pass giant metal containers with deflated, tangled parachutes.  Other things have been dropped here—big things that required cages.

You find a river and you nearly cry.  You manage to clumsily kneel in the mud and you drink and drink and drink until you throw it all up.  Then you drink some more.

-----

You find an outcropping of rock.  You manage to tear up some saplings to lay across the rock face, giving you some scant camouflage.

You still haven’t eaten.  Your stomach has stopped growling, but you hallucinate food.  You swear you can smell smoke, and underneath it you catch the phantom scent of barbeque, of smoked meats, of charred vegetables with a balsamic glaze, of rich red wines and crisp white ones, of heavy cakes that lie sweet and rich on the tongue, washed down with coffee so dark it makes your toes curl…

You jolt awake with a start.  It’s night and you’ve fallen asleep but there’s flickering orange over the nearest ridge.  Something is on fire.

-----

When you startle awake again, it’s because of an explosion in the sky—a spaceship exploding into a fireball.

-----

It’s hard to know how much time passes.

You catch sight of parachutes in the sky, but you can’t worry about them.  You know you are going to die on this planet, so far from home, but you wonder if any of the creatures being dropped are going to be the ones to kill you.

Maybe.  Maybe not.  The fever might kill you first.

It’s your ankle with the nub of broken bone sticking out of your skin, a sight so distressing that you can’t look at it without getting faint.  

It’s any of the handful of cuts all over your body.  You have no way to disinfect them.  You do your best to clean your wounds in the river, but infection sets in and you grow feverish, sluggish, crazed with heat.

-----

You wake up to a strange clicking sound.  A chittering sound, like an insect might make….if insects were huge.  The air in front of you shimmers and you think it’s the heat of the day, but then there’s a couple of beeps, and it comes into startling, terrifying view.

The thing.  The alien, though on this world, you suppose you are the alien.

The thing hunting you.

You had put it together piece by piece over the past days (weeks?).  The giant planet that seems to be empty save for the creatures dropped in via parachutes.  The humans you dropped in with—all of them elite fighters, from the looks, save the one smaller white guy.  

When you were young, your father and his brothers used to quail hunt.  They’d buy a crate of half-tame birds and then loose them into the grounds around their hunting camp, then pick them off one by one.  This seemed to be the exact same thing.

You’re not upset it (he?) found you.  You’re sick and exhausted and hungry and thirsty, and the infection raging through your body will kill you if he doesn’t.  A bullet to the brain will be quicker and less painful than wasting away.

“S’okay,” you tell him, holding out your empty hands to him in supplication.  “At least…least I got to see another planet.  D-different stars.  Better than…other ways to d-die.”

He tilts his head at you.  Says nothing.  Does nothing.  You lick your cracked lips and try to sit up straighter, but you cry out at the grinding pain of your ankle.  

He doesn’t move—he only watches.

“Figured it out,” you continue.  “Figured out what this is.  Game preserve, right?”  You chuckle, wince against the throb of pain in your head.  “Can’t be much of a trophy for you though, huh?  B-broke my ankle straight away.  W-weak.”

He’s so still that you’d think he was a statue, but the dread-like things on his head sway in the breeze.  

“Like the short story, y’know?  The Most Dangerous Game.  I tell it to my honors students sometimes.  General Zaroff and his hunting hounds, Ship-Trap Island, all the rest….”  You trail off, not sure why you’re babbling at this creature who is only staring at you.

You’re also not sure why he just doesn’t get it over with.  Just kill you already.

“It’s okay,” you tell him.  You shut your eyes, nod your head.  “I’m ready.  You can do it.”

You keep your eyes shut, and each moment that passes, your courage fails you a little more.  You’re sick and already dying, but you want another day, another night, another moment to feel the breeze or see these strange stars or remember all the books you’ve read and loved and mourn those you never got to read, all the movies—

“Tell.  Story.”  You open your eyes at the sound of your own voice, see the creature fiddling with some computer strapped to his arm.  It’s your own words.  Your words, recorded and played back to you.

“Tell.  Rest.  Story,” he repeats, using your words to communicate with you.

“You…you want me to tell you the story?  The Most Dangerous Game?”  You blink and shake your head slightly, sure this is the fever causing you to hallucinate the entire thing.

He nods his head.  Curt.  A single nod.

The fever roars to life in you.  A million emotions:  relief at earning another moment or two of life, disappointment for it to not be over.  Your head feels heavy and light as air at the same time, and your vision starts to waver again, but he’s still standing in front of you, impassive.

“I think—” you start to say, but darkness descends swiftly, and you aren’t aware of much beyond a handful of sensations:  a stabbing, needling pain in your thigh, a rough hand on your face, and your entire body being lifted and carried.

*****

He’s not sure why he saves you.

It wouldn’t be honorable to kill you and consider it an good hunt, but it would be merciful to kill you.  Be’kan can smell you from a distance, the sickly-sweet smell of illness.  You will die soon.  You are a filthy creature when he finds you, slick with sweat and shivering and coated in dirt, but you hold out your hands to show you have no weapons.

And then you fix him with your bright gaze—the fever giving you a crazed look—and you speak to him.

It’s the promise of a story.  Yautja live for the Hunt, but they live for stories nearly as much.  They hunt, then they gather and tell each other stories.  It’s half of why they record their hunts through their masks:  to learn from their prey, but also to glory in the retelling.

The promise of your story.  A story of a hunter.  Be’kan kneels beside your unconscious form and jabs you with needle to kill some of your pain.  Then he lifts you up, throws you over his shoulder, and takes you back to camp.

-----

His brothers tease him.  They share a sire but Be’kan is the eldest, and the younger ones torment him.

“This ooman is already dead, brother.”

“The ooman-di certainly smells dead.”

“Our brother has found a pet to nurse back to health.”

It earns them all a cuff to their heads, a snarled warning, but they chuckle and leave him to it.  Leave him to you.

-----

The needle he gave could heal small wounds, but the fever that burns through you requires something more.

He gives you a second needle’s worth of painkiller, and then he does the only thing that can heal you:  he gives you his blood.  Just a little.  Just enough.

First, though, he has to reset your broken bone.  His blood will course through you fast and hot, and it’ll heal anything in its path.  The bone needs to be set or else it will heal wrong.

You wake up when he hauls your leg into his lap.  You sit up, fold yourself upward towards him, and you try to pull away, not understanding what he’s doing.

“Be still,” he barks, and you freeze—long enough for him to wrap a paw around your leg, the other around your foot, and wrench the broken bones back together.

The shriek you let loose hurts his head, sets a roosting flock of birds alight over the nearby trees.  You’re in so much sudden pain that you grasp his upper arm, you bury your face against his shoulder before you go slack against him, and if love is an especially rare thing for a Yautja, then this is perhaps the moment it enters his bloodstream and starts to infect him, very, very slowly.

*****

You wake to find that you feel better than you have in years:  fever broken, ankle healed.  Your cuts and bruises have all disappeared.

There are three other…things.  Aliens.  Whatever they are, they are tall and broad.  They are packed with muscles and claws, and they have an entire arsenal of weapons on them.

The one who saved you—it doesn’t take long before you think of him as yours.  He is fascinating to look at, certainly ugly by human standards, but he’s fascinating.  Grey-blue in color, dull grey metal mask with a mark etched into it.  Ornaments woven into the dread-like things that sprout from his head:  polished stones and rings of metal and little pieces of bone.

He seems older than the others, though they don’t have any discernable markings of age.  No grey hair, no wrinkles.  He only seems older because he moves slower, more ponderous.  Where the others click and chitter at each other, he makes less noise—but when he does, the others still and listen.

-----

You figure it out—he keeps you alive for your stories.

The first story is the Most Dangerous Game, and he doesn’t seem to listen.  He makes you sit near the fire while he painstakingly polishes and sharpens his bladed weapons.  He makes you tell the story, and he doesn’t seem to listen, but when you trail off halfway through, he cocks his head and makes an irritated clicking at you.  So you finish.

He keeps you alive.  He feeds you, brings you water.  He gives you a wide fur to curl up in while you sleep, and he keeps himself between you and the dark night on the planet.  He keeps you from anything that may try to come out of the darkness and hurt you.

I have become Scheherazade, you think to yourself as you watch him where he lies near you.  I have to tell him stories to save my own life.

*****

Be’kan hunts with his kin, then he listens to your stories at night.  His kin may tease him, but he catches them listening on the sly, eavesdropping as you tell your stories and weave your tales with your words.  You get more and more comfortable each night; you seem to fear him less.

It is odd that you’re such a good storyteller.  He never thought of oomans as such.  They are a clever, sneaky species, but he never knew they had such stories.  And you seem to know them all.  

It is good that you are a good storyteller, because you are otherwise unimpressive.  You’re weak and small, a soft thing.  A ridiculous thing.  Up close, he can see how fragile oomans are:  the hide that tears so easily, the soft claws that cannot slash anything.  Bones too easily snapped.  He learned that lesson when he healed you—he had been too rough and hurt you.  He’d felt a sting of shame—a strange emotion for a Yautja—and vowed to be gentler with you.

Not that he will touch you if he can help it.  You are ugly like all oomans are.  You have no markings.  You have dull teeth and a strange fleshy mouth and wide eyes that leak water.  You are the same as all of your species.

So it’s good that you tell your stories, because otherwise he’d be quit of you:  he’d tear your spine out, and then he’d never again have to tuck you into his furs each night to keep your frail ooman body warm.

*****

It takes a while to calibrate which stories he wants, which…of course he wants stories about hunters and killers and fierce battles.

Which means you run through the standard fare pretty early on.  You tell him the Tale of John McClane, the Tale of Kevin McAllister, the numerous Tales of James Bond.  You turn Indiana Jones into a Nazi hunter instead of an archeologist.  The Lord of the Rings becomes a fellowship intent on hunting down and killing Sauron.  Luke Skywalker is a man out to kill an entire litany of Storm Troopers before he kills his father.  You have him kill the Ewoks too, just for fun.

Your creature….you wonder if sexism exists in his species, so you tell him the Tale of Sarah Connors to see how he reacts to a woman protagonist.  By now, he sits in rapt attention, takes a deep squat near the fire and stares at you as you tell how Sarah Connors starts as the hunted, then ends up the hunter.

He seems to enjoy the story.  He gives a slow nod at the end, as if he’s satisfied.

-----

You try more varied fare.  You tell him the story of Jane Eyre.

He takes the wrong message from it.

He also speaks to you, more than he ever has before.  He usually just gives you one or two word commands in his rough English, but hearing about Jane Eyre?

“No,” he barks, and he shakes his head angrily when you get the part where Jane flees to the moors.

“Well, the story isn’t done—”

“Jane is unworthy,” he spits out.  “A worthy mate would not flee.”

You catch the way his hands flex, the sharp claws that tip his fingers.  The warning growl he makes.

“You have to listen to the rest of the story,” you say carefully, and for the first time in the history of gothic romance novels, Jane Eyre regroups on the moors, and then stalks back to Thornfield Hall to kill Bertha Mason and prove herself a worthy mate to Mr. Rochester.

The next night, you decide to not test your luck.

“To survive a war, you gotta become war,” you tell him as you settle by the fire.  “Let me tell you a story about a man named John Rambo.”

-----

How many stories do you tell?  Fifty?  A hundred?  It’s hard to tell.  Sometimes you stretch out a story across nights, a tactic that seems to infuriate him—he snarls, he roars behind his mask, he stalks away—but then he seems more eager the next night, more eager to sit by you and listen.

And he is more willing to answer your questions, so you learn too.

His kind are called Yautja.  He is called Be’kan, a name that comes out of his mouth like a bark.  In his language of clicks and trills, it means Thundering Blade, which maybe explains why he enjoys stories with swords so much.

You tell him your name.  You tell him, as best you can, what you did on Earth.  He seems to interpret it as you being a storyteller of great fame, which makes you laugh—you barely made enough to live on your teaching salary, and your student loans would follow you into your dotage.

One night, he reaches up and undoes the grey metal mask he wears.  He removes it and shows you his real face:  an ugly thing by human standards, but just as fascinating as the rest of him.  Small, close-set eyes so yellow they look like molten gold.  Two pairs of tusks set around his mouth.

He doesn’t say anything and neither do you, but you get the very real sense that this is a moment of intimacy between the two of you.  That he’s showing you a part of himself that many don’t get to see outside of his own kind.

*****

Be’kan can’t account for what he feels for you.

Yautja don’t love.  Their breeding is a violent, painful thing.  The females—larger, stronger—fight the males, kill the males to ensure they only breed with the strongest and most worthy.  It is the same with the raising of their young:  there’s no sentiment or cuddling once a pup is no longer a suckling.

You are a soft, small thing.  Ugly and weak.  And yet you’ve cracked open some hard part of him that makes him hurt when he thinks of parting from you.

And yet…he knows he has to.

He’s reviewed the data around the sweep that took you from your planet.  It was a mistake, unthinkable yet real.  You had crossed paths with a man that day—a certain man who had killed many in one of your kind’s wars.  A man who had returned from war and kept killing.  

You lived in the same building.  You had no way of knowing.

The Yautja meant to take that man, that killer, but they took you.

Be’kan knows he has to take you back.  His honor will allow him nothing else:  you are no killer, you are not worthy prey.  You are an exalted storyteller, a worthy position in his own society, so you must be returned to your own.

And yet, in that cracked-open place, he wants to forget his honor and keep you with him.  He wants to tuck you into his furs each night and lie nearby, keeping guard over you.  He wants to listen to your stories and answer your questions about his kind.  

He wants you to fix him with that bright gaze of yours with those too-wide eyes that sometimes get watery. You see him and you don’t recoil though he is surely as ugly to you as you are to him.

He plans with his kin:  they will return home in their ship, and he will take you back to Earth in his own before he joins them.  It isn’t a long journey.

Then he tells you, and you don’t react the way he thought you might.

You frown.  Then you go quiet.

That night, when he settles near you at the fire, you don’t tell him a story.  And when he asks, you turn away from him.

“I don’t have any more stories,” you tell him.  Then you curl up on your side, your knees to your chest, and Be’kan realizes he knows nothing at all about the ooman-di who has cracked open a part of him and left him aching and empty.

*****

Life back on Earth doesn’t resume quite so smoothly.  Turns out, when you are missing for months and then suddenly resurface, people have questions.

The government has questions.  Countless men and women in dark suits interrogate you, and since you can’t think of a single plausible reason other than the truth, you tell them the truth:  that you were on an alien planet being hunted by aliens.

They don’t seem shocked, which shocks you.

-----

The U.S. government relocates you to a different part of the country as a fresh start. ��You keep your own name, and you still teach, but the government gives you a nice little house set back near the edge of a forest and a nice little monthly stipend to keep your mouth shut about your alien abduction.

Your new life is the same as your old.  You teach, you go home at night.  You make dinner and you read or watch a movie, then you go to bed.

Repeat day after day.

-----

You find that you miss him.  It makes no sense.  Maybe it’s Stockholm Syndrome, but it felt right to be there.  On Earth, you always felt a step out of sync with other humans.  You understood jokes a beat too late to laugh; you didn’t find joy in a lot of the things others did.  You struggled to date, struggled to make friends.  You had been alone for much of your life.

It was a simpler life, those few months.  

Sleep curled up in warm furs, tell stories to keep your place with him.  Look up at the night sky to see strange stars and create your own constellations with their own stories.  Learn the hand signals he and his brothers give each other, learn what their different trills and clicks mean.

Then he took you on his ship and brought you back to Earth.

The night before you arrived back on Earth, he had opened a chamber on his ship.  He stepped into it and gestured for you to join him, held his big paw of a hand out to you and you had taken it, tried to ignore how it felt when he closed his hand around yours, as gentle as if he were cupping a bird.

Then he placed his other hand on your back, just a gentle.  Pulled you into the room and turned you to look at the display along the wall.

It was covered in skulls.  Polished and mounted, so many different types that you gasped.  

It had the same charged feel as when he had removed his mask.  It was an intimacy that you guessed was rare.

You studied each skull closely, except for the one that was obviously human.  You reached out and touched the sharp teeth and tusks of each, murmured at how dangerous each hunt must have been, how good a hunter he was.

You knew enough of Yautja sounds by then to know that the deep purring he made was pride.

-----

When you curl up in your bed each night, you miss the soft furs and the foreign stars in the sky over you.

You think of when he landed on Earth and left you.  How he had reached out a hand to grasp your face, gently.  How he had pressed the tip of one claw carefully to your lower lip as if he were testing how it felt.

-----  

You spend one weekend building a fire pit in your backyard.  You dig out a shallow bowl in the earth, line it with flat stones.  You create a ring around the bowl with rocks.  You spend a few hours in the woods behind your home, dragging large branches back, cutting them up with a bow saw.

You build a fire that night.  You wrap yourself in a blanket and stare into the flickering orange flames while your muscles ache from the hard work.

It’s not the same but you try.  “Let me tell you about a woman we’ll call the Bride, who went on a journey of revenge with a magical sword,” you murmur to the flames, and it’s easy to pretend that he’s just at the edge of the firelight, crouched down and listening in his still, intent way.

*****

Be’kan is not a Young Blood anymore, so he’s surprised to find that he is still capable of having the inner turmoil, the unsettled emotions of a much younger Yautja.

He had recorded many of your stories through his mask, but it’s not the same.  The stories become flat and lifeless in the recordings.  They don’t capture the magic you wove each night when you told them.  And they don’t capture after the stories, when you’d curl up by the fire and when he’d lie a distance away, near enough to hear your deep breathing and the pitiful whimpers you sometimes made when you twitched and kicked in your sleep as you dreamed.

You belong with your own kind.  You are a master; you teach the younglings of your kind with your stories.  He knows this, yet he thinks of other oomans—their sly, sneaky ways, their treachery.  How quickly your kind was willing to abandon you to suffer during the hunt.  Then he rages at them, thinks they do not deserve you.

-----

It’s hard to know how much time passes.  How many cycles in his ship, on his hunts account for the cycles on Earth.

He’s no longer a Young Blood, but a restlessness comes over him.  He hunts with his kin.  He hunts alone.  He takes new trophies and cleans them, hangs them in his trophy room, but even here he thinks of you.  He showed you his trophies and you had praised him, called him a great hunter, and he had trilled in pride.  

He replays the stories you told.  He replays the night he told you he was going to take you home, and how you had reacted.

You should have been happy to return to your own kind.  He thinks, perhaps, he understands why now.

*****

Sitting around the fire becomes your way of unwinding in the evenings.  A glass of wine, the warmth of the fire.  You can look up and see the stars, even if they are the same ones you have always known.

When you hear that strange, clicking growl one night, you think it’s an auditory hallucination.  There’s no way he’s here, no way he’s found you—

But he’s a hunter.  He’s an apex predator, so when the air in front of you shimmers and then reveals him, you can’t really be that surprised.

What surprises you is how hard your heart leaps to see him.  How quickly you spring to your feet and take those few steps to stand in front of him.  You stop at the last minute, but you very nearly tackle him—as if you could, with how big he is—in a hug.

“You’re here,” you breathe out, and he makes the clicking, chuffing sound that you’ve always thought of as his version of laughter.  But then it cuts off, and he tilts his head at you.

“Be’kan was unworthy,” he growls at you.  “A worthy mate would not have fled.”

#yautja #yautja x reader #yautja imagine #predator #predator x reader #predator imagine #predator franchise

[sluttyminghao]

Maybe my thougt isn't that hard, the week hasn't been easy, but how would wonwoo react to you shyly begging for a strip tease, like "it can be a simple one, I just want to watch you" or "I'll do whatever you want later "(as if you didn't already)

This man got my walls shaking with just a stare, probably I never got flustered like this for someone before

wonwoo had never given you a strip tease before, the thought hadn't even come to his mind. normally you're the one who does the strip teases, and it turns him on beyond belief, the way your body sways and how effortlessly you seem to do it.

"you want me to...want me to do a strip tease?"

his voice is one of astonishment, and his heart beats rapidly, but seeing you sitting there confidently, head nodding and eyes shining with delight at the proposition, he couldn't refuse. he never could.

"i just want to watch you wonu, wanna see how shy and needy you can get"

without further ado, he stands, scratching at the back of his neck nervously. he's sure that if his heart was beating any faster it might jump out of his chest, but he wanted to see how you reacted to his strip tease.

he only had a cardigan, t-shirt and sweats on, but even without stripping anything off yet, he felt naked under your gaze, and he feels his cheeks burn.

just as he starts to remove his cardigan, he hears you turn on your sex playlist, and it only makes his cock throb in his boxers. he averts his gaze from you and keeps it planted on the floor as he removes his cardigan slowly, letting it fall off his broad shoulders and hitting the ground with a soft thud.

"look up at me baby."

your voice sends a chill down his spine and he shyly looks up at you, a grin on your features as you turn the music up slightly. he can see the lust pooling in your eyes, and with the way you'd already stripped yourself down to your bra and panties, he could see how you were already beginning to soak your panties.

wonwoo feels a spike of confidence as he pulls his shirt over his head, exposing his toned body. a low whistle escapes from you and he flings his shirt at you, earning a giggle.

in a spur-of-the-moment idea, he runs his hands over his abdomen, running his fingers through the ridges of his abs, and all across his stomach quickly, before moving lower and hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats.

he shimmies his way out of them quickly, exposing his half-hard erection quickly growing in his boxers. after shaking his sweats off his ankles and going in to remove his boxers, you approach him, stopping his hands in their path.

instead, you let your hand wander, going to cup his cock through his boxers and emitting a soft groan from his lips. you lean up and let your mouth find the flesh of his neck, sucking softly while you continue to palm him through his boxers.

"let me make you feel good wonu, i'll make you see stars"

#sluttyhao smut #kpop smut #kpop imagine #seventeen smut #seventeen imagine #wonwoo smut #wonwoo imagine

[hollybee8917]

In the Court of the Shield and Star

Chapter 1- The Angel and the King

Plot: King Steve Rogers meets Eliza Frye who is a total mystery to him. They start to fall in love, but things are never that simple.

Characters: Steve Rogers, Eliza Frye (OFC), Tony Stark, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Peggy Carter, Bucky Barnes, Owen Tyre (OC), Sam Wilson, Pietro Maximoff, Wanda Maximoff, Stephen Strange

Warnings in this chapter: Assault, harassment, physical violence, animal attack

Howling. Endless howling. Eliza looked up from the parchment on which she was drawing and she moved to the window. A dim light was low over the field. As she looked out, she saw a figure. He was waving a sword but his movements were jerky. Around him, a pack of wolves circled, growling, lunging, snapping at him.

Fear filled her. The man was going to die if she didn’t help. Quickly, she grabbed her bow and her loaded quiver before running out the door. She reached a slight ridge behind the trapped man. From where she was positioned, she could see the man was injured.

Eliza raised her bow and nocked an arrow. Pulling the string back, she steadied her draw then released. The arrow whistled through the air and struck a wolf. It went down with a whimper. Instantly, Eliza repeated her motions. Nock, draw, release. Nock, draw, release. The arrows shrilled through the air hitting their marks. Soon, only three wolves were left but now they were focused on her.

The young woman slid down the ridge as the howling wolves rushed toward her. At the bottom of the ridge, she picked up her sword and prepared herself with a flame. The scarred alpha made his way over the ridge and down toward her before stopping at the sight of the woman holding shimmering steel and a large torch. It paced back and forth before letting out a long howl and dashing back the way it had come with the other two right behind.

Eliza let loose a sigh and lowered her sword and sheathed it. Then she remembered. The injured man! She took off in the direction she had last seen him. Waving the torch, she spotted him. I have to get him to safety.

~~

King Steve Rogers groaned as he rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes to find himself in a strange bed. A window sat on his left and to his right was a wooden door. He threw back the blankets and swung his feet to the floor. The man looked down at his unclad torso wrapped in a white bandage. Who did this? Where am I?

Before he could muse any farther, the door opened to reveal a beautiful young woman. She smiled gently at him, “Oh, wonderful, you’ve woken. I was fearful that you would not. You gave me quite the fright last night. How do you feel?”

The blonde man was stunned to silence at her simple beauty so she tilted her head, “Have you a tongue, good sir?”

This simple remark somewhat amused Steve and he let out a low yet hearty laugh, “Indeed I have a tongue, kind maiden. I am most confused, however, as to my whereabouts and the situation that has led to this remarkable hospitality.”

She poured a small pitcher of water into the wash basin on the table by the door, “You were attacked by a pack of wolves. You needed aid so I hurried to your side with bow and quiver in hand.”

Steve looked down at his semi-clothed form, “You saved me.”

“I did.”

He let his eyes drift up to hers, “And you have brought me here alone?”

The girl wrung out the rag she had soaked in the bowl of water and approached Steve with it, “I did. You were in dire need and I was always taught to help those in need. Lift your chin. There was some dirt I could not remove last night.”

Steve did as he was told then he glanced around the room, “Where are my tunic and shirt? Also, I had a satchel slung over me. Where has it gone? Have you looked inside it?”

She smiled gently, “I washed them as best I could and hung them to dry. Once they had dried, I folded them and put them here on the chair. The satchel I have placed on the chair as well. I did not search your belongings. I will leave you to dress. Should you need any help, please call for me.”

Confusion crossed the man’s face, “Thank you for your aid and the respect you have shown by not searching my things while I was incapacitated. But how should I call for you if I do not know your name, fair one.”

Once more she smiled at him as she turned away, “Eliza Frye.”

Then she was gone and Steve was left alone.

~~

Eliza was seated at her table when the stranger exited the bedroom. Steve noticed that she did not take note of him and cleared his throat causing her to shift her gaze to him, “Oh, my apologies. Would you like some food to eat, good sir?”

He nodded, “Yes, what have you to offer?”

She rose from her chair and made her way into her larder, “I have bread, cheese and eggs. I also have salted pork and cured fish. What takes your fancy?”

The king responded, “I will have the bread and cheese for now. I do not wish to eat all you have.”

Eliza tucked hair behind her ear as she stepped out of the larder with the food he requested, “You do no such thing, kind sir. Please, tell me should you desire more.”

A loud rapping came from her door and Eliza hurried away to answer it. She gulped as the rapping rattled the door. Cautiously sliding it open, she felt herself forced from the home and she hit her knees as two men shoved her down. Eliza knew why the men were there.

The two men were soldiers from a nearby fort. They plagued the little village but targeted Eliza specifically due to her living alone. The taller of the two was a soldier named Rhys Argent. He was cruel and enjoyed the torment of others. Beside him, the other solder, who was named Wendell Colby, sneered at her, “Where’s the payment you promised us?”

Eliza shivered, “I-I-I don’t have any money.”

“I-I-I. Come now. You can do better than that,” Rhys Argent mocked her. Then his tone turned serious, “Do you not recall what we said would happen if you did not pay us?”

She was too frightened to speak and could only keep her eyes forward. Rhys raised his hand then brought it down against the side of her head her cheek causing Eliza to fall over. Wendell Colby let out a low laugh, “Why don’t we start with your precious horse, huh? You want us to take it?”

Eliza said nothing which angered Wendell and Rhys more. As Rhys brought his foot up and connected it to Eliza’s side, Wendell’s eyes grew wide and he fell into a kneel. Rhys didn’t notice and continued his attack on Eliza.

“Kneel,” Wendell hissed.

Rhys did not hear and instead continued his assault on Eliza.

“KNEEL!” A voice boomed.

In one fluid motion, Rhys looked up, his eyes widened in fear and he fell to one knee. Eliza slowly rose up onto her knees then turned. Shock filled her soul. In the doorway stood Steve but not as she had seen him before. A carefully crafted elaborate crown with sapphires and black diamonds was placed upon his head. His tunic and shirt were carefully tucked in but the sleeves flowed freely without restraint. A cloak was clasped around his neck. He looked kingly.

Rhys spoke, “Your majesty! Forgive us!”

Steve hushed him with a glare. He then reached down and helped Eliza to her feet, “Are you badly injured?”

She kept her head down and shook it. Tenderly, Steve used a finger to lift her chin, “Do not be afraid. Let me show you the same kindness you have shown me. Return to your chair and rest. I shall be in once I have dealt with these two.”

Eliza did not cast a glance to the soldiers but quietly smiled at Steve, “Thank you, your majesty.”

With this she reentered her cottage.

Steve turned to the two men and spoke with authority, “Why did you attack an innocent villager? Is your command not to serve and protect my people? Are you not part of your King’s army, sworn to protect the crown and those living under it? What are your names, soldiers?”

The two men stuttered but have no coherent response. “ANSWER YOUR KING!,” Steve roared.

Wendell was the first respond though he kept his head low, “I am Wendell Colby, your majesty. My companion is Rhys Argent. We are soldiers stationed at Whitich Keep.”

Steve hummed, “Whitich Keep. I know it well. Return there and inform your commander that I shall be arriving shortly. I will deal with you at the fort.”

“Yes, majesty.” Wendell replied but neither man moved.

“Now!,” barked King Steve, “And make haste.”

The men fled back to their horses and were swiftly gone fearing any further wrath from the king.

~~

Eliza was seated in her chair, holding a compress to her side when he returned. She was instantly on her knees without a sound. Once more, he lifted her up, “Please do not do that. Not on my account. Please sit.”

She did as he commanded and he picked up his satchel, “I have business to attend at Whitich Keep but I shall return. Before I go, have you a horse I may borrow? I am afraid mine fled in encounter yesterday eve.”

Eliza replied, “I have a mare who is broken and a stallion I have been breaking to ride. I think he is ready and would be more suited for your majesty.”

The king brushed a stray hair from the girl’s face, “You intrigue me, Eliza Frye, and I would like to call on you once more.”

Eliza lost her nerve to speak and Steve smirked, “Have you a tongue, fair one?”

She looked at him with a smile and a laugh, “Aye, I have a tongue, good sir and I use it well.”

They both laughed and King Steve Rogers motioned to the door, “Perhaps you might show me the steed I am to ride so I may hurry away and then back to you?”

She led him out to the paddock and called over the brown Stallion with a low whistle. It trotted over and she watched as Steve, the king, tacked it up. The king turned with a slight bow then swung himself upon the stallion, “Until we meet again.”

Eliza curtseyed to him then watched as he rode away.

~~

Steve entered the village of Gramsby and observed the state of it. The town’s cobbled streets were well-kept and the homes were in perfect condition but something was missing. Slowly, Steve pulled the horse to the side of the street and dismounted the horse he had borrowed from Eliza Frye. Tying the horse to the hitching post, the king made his way to the pub. He was careful to not raise an alarm.

However, when the king reached for the door, he found it shored up from the inside. He heard hushed whispers from the inside the pub and the realization hit him hard. Where are all the people?

The king knocked on the door, “Good gentleman, I have travelled long and wish only for a drink from your establishment. Perhaps I may enter?”

A voice called from inside, “We have very little money or grog.”

~~

The sky seemed to mirror King Steve’s mood as he rode through the gate of Whitich Keep. Above his head, storm clouds had gathered and lightening threatened to crack the sky. A tall man dressed with many medals approached as the blonde king dismounted his horse. With a great swoop, he fell to one knee, “Majesty, we are greatly honored by your presence. How may I be of service to you?”

“Save your pleasantries, General. I did not come here to bandy words. Bring to me the soldiers who are stationed here.”

“I take you would like to deal with Rhys Argent and Wendell Colby. I have placed them in the stockade. What other punishment-“

“SILENCE!” Steve bellowed as the thunder echoed in the sky, “Bring to me ALL of the soldiers stationed here.”

Fearful of furthering the king’s wrath, General Edryd Cadigan motioned for the gathering of his men. The rain began to fall as a mustering horn was sounded. Quickly, the soldiers lined up and one by one fell to one knee. The General spoke to the King, “Majesty, may I-“

Steve cut him off, “Silence, General Cadigan. Tis my turn to speak. Now, who would like to inform me of the incidents in the town of Gramsby?”

Not a single soldier spoke. Instead, they looked among themselves. The king turned toward the captain, “Bring me Rhys Argent and Wendell Colby.”

The captain nodded and walked to the stockade. Again, the king addressed the line of men, “I will only ask you once more. Why have you been tormenting the people of Grimsby?”

A young man stepped forward, “Majesty, if I may speak?”

Steve sized the lad up, “What is your name, son?”

“Aelric Hylderley,” the young man responded, “your majesty.”

Steve approached him, “What do you have to say for these men, Aelric?”

The young soldier gulped, “I am afraid that the people of Grimsby have been targeted by many of the men. The general has done little to curtail the actions of the men in this fort. In fact, he has encouraged it. Those who protested the actions of their fellow soldiers were disciplined.”

Steve bristled, “Where was the captain?”

“Spending most of his time in the stockade for protesting, your majesty.”

The king turned and looked to the captain, “Dismiss your men. I will deal with them one by one. Young Hylderley, what rank are you in this company?”

Aelric shook slightly, “I am a mere soldier, Majesty.”

Steve turned and faced his general, “You will be henceforth stripped of your rank and demoted to Lieutenant in my army. Is that understood?”

Cadigan began to cower, “Yes, Majesty. It’s understood.”

He stepped back, “Captain, take the General into arms and hold him until a new leader arrives at the fort. I have already sent back to the capital for one.”

Another soldier stepped forward, “Yes, your majesty.”

“Now, where are the traitors?”

The captain motioned to the men in chains, “Here, Majesty.”

“Hang them and any other soldiers guilty of harming my people.”

Then Steve turned and walked back to his horse, ignoring the cries of the two men behind him pleading for mercy.

~~

Eliza was sitting alone in the cottage, reading a book, when there came a knock at the door. She rose and made her way over. Timidly, she opened the door to find the King standing before her. Bowing low, she murmured, “Majesty.”

Steve placed his hands at her elbows and matched her tone, “Please, look at me and not my boots.”

Eliza raised her chin and met his gaze, “What may I aid you with, Majesty?”

The king tilted his head, “You are a fascinating creature, Eliza Frye, and I would like to call on you again.”

She shook her head, “It would be ill-advised to do so, your Majesty. I am a commoner and as such would not be worthy of your time. You would be more suited to seek the company of a lady of the court.”

“I believe that as king, that should be my determination, not anyone else’s. I have set my eyes on you and you alone. Would you not prefer my company?”

“I would, Majesty, but I don’t know how the people would take it. I am not like the women of your court least of all, Duchess Margaret whom I hear is a great beauty.”

Steve shook his head, “Nay, you are far more lovely, compassionate and courageous. Please allow me to call on you once more.”

“Very well, my king.”

He bowed to her and turned, “I will have your horse returned to you in haste upon my arrival back at the capital.”

“Keep him. I have no need for another.” Steve smiled the mounted the horse, waved goodbye and spurred the horse toward home.

#steve rogers #original character #original female character #tony stark #wanda maximoff #bucky barnes #peggy carter #original male character #clint barton #natasha romanoff #captain america #sam wilson #pietro maximoff #king!Steve Rogers #King!Tony Stark #Knight!Bucky #steve rogers x oc

[mistresslrigtar]

Chapter Eighteen: Ice (written for Zelinktines24 day eighteen prompt)

Read below or HERE

Link quickly equips Epona with her saddle and harness and swings into the saddle, spurring her on with a shouted “Yah!” that’s lost on the wind. Rain pelts them as he rides along the ridge, trying to see Star’s golden coat in the dark. It’s nearly impossible except when the lightning lights up the sky for a brief moment. Epona tosses her head when the thunder rumbles, but otherwise, she stays true to the course Link has set. With the next flash, Link curses when he thinks he sees gold far down the embankment toward the churning sea. Between the treacherous terrain and the monsters that roam the shore, he’ll be lucky if he can bring an unscathed Star back. Zelda will be heartbroken if her horse breaks his leg or worse.

Tugging the reins to the right, Link guides Epona down the steep slope, made more treacherous by the pouring rain. The fierce sea-salt-laden wind whips his hair, and his heart pounds in his chest, as Link squints into the gloom to determine if the golden glimmer on the shore is Star or a trick of the light. As they near the bottom, the crash of waves against the shore of Malin Bay underscores the roar of the wind.

He brings Epona to a halt and pushing his rain-slicked hair back, searches for the elusive golden horse. He hears a faint high-pitched giggle moments before the wind hurls icy rain in his face and a wizzrobe appears hovering a few feet away. Yanking on the reins, Link urges Epona to trot away and circle around as he pulls his bow and a fire arrow from the quiver on his back.

The snickering wizzrobe disappears and Link squints, trying to see the tell-tale puddles they leave as they prance in the air. Gripping the bow, he nocks the arrow and pulls back the line. The string is slippery in the rain and his arm trembles from the heavy draw. Link berates himself for failing to lower the tension to compensate for his weakened muscles.

Manic laughter to his left, has Link swiveling in the saddle, and letting loose the arrow as the wizzrobe appears. He curses when the projectile misses their head by mere millimeters to fizzle out in the churning sea beyond. With a gleeful shout, the wizzrobe shoots jets of ice from their scepter in retaliation. Raising his bow arm to shield his body, Link jerks the reins to move Epona from the line of fire. Link hisses when sharp shards of ice tear at the sleeve of his tunic, leaving stinging slashes in their wake.

“Link!”

Tulin barrels out of nowhere, a bright, white streak appearing in the night. He has his bow at the ready and pierces the surprised wizzrobe square in the head. With a shriek, it turns a purplish-black before disappearing with a faint poof.

“Ice shooting, buddy.” Link chuckles when Tulin grimaces at the terrible pun.

Tulin whips around in the air, and dives down, scooping up the glowing blue scepter the wizzrobe dropped. “Check this out!”

He waves the wand, leaving a frosty ice-blue circle in the air between them, and grinning through the center. Link marvels at Tulin’s youthful exuberance. He can’t recall a time he’d ever felt that way at Tulin’s age. After the unsuccessful conversation with Zelda and his failure to take down a wizzrobe, Link is more certain than ever it’s time to pass the torch or in this instance, scepter.

“Princess Zelda’s worried about you. She told me you ran after Star?” Tulin flutters in the air beside him, rain streaming from his slick feathers. It’s difficult to tell in the dark night and rain, but Link thinks he might be as tall as him now. He’s growing up fast.

Putting his bow away, Link nods and clicks his tongue, spurring Epona to trot along the shore. “I think he’s down here. I was about to check when the wizzrobe ambushed me. You showed up just in time. Thanks for the assist.”

Tulin keeps pace with Epona and whistles softly for Star every now and then. As the wind begins to die down, Link thinks he can hear a whinny and searching ahead sees a faint glimpse of gold on an outcropping being battered by crashing waves.

“There!” He points and Tulin flies ahead to perch on a jagged boulder not far from a bedraggled Star. The horse whinnies mournfully as Link approaches.

Dismounting, Link takes a bridle from the saddle bag and traverses the slippery rocks. Star shies away at his approach, skittish from the stress of his flight and being trapped on the rocky outcropping.

Shushing softly, Link runs his hand along Star’s nose as he slips the bridle over his head. Once secure, he holds the lead firmly and leads Star to shore. It’s only when the strap is tied to Epona’s saddle and they’re heading back to the house does Link allows himself to let out a long breath. He doesn’t fully relax until they crest the hill and he sees Zelda standing in the doorway anxiously awaiting their return.

I haven’t posted a link to the full story lately, so if you’re just joining in, you can read the story to date on AO3 HERE

Many thanks to my fantastic beta, lovesickflora.

#legend of zelda #zelink #the legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom #breath of the wild #totk tulin #zelinktines24 #dailyprompt

[hamspamandjamsandwich]

Teaser #3 - “Animal Instinct”

Details under the cut!

“The forest is at its most beautiful at night. Kurama has always thought so.

Moonlight peeking through the black clouds and washing the foliage in shades of blue; the quiet stillness other than the trees swaying with the gentle push and pull of the wind; the shadow play of the growing greenery’s silhouettes. All of it is lovely, quiet, and feels like home.

Evergreens stand tall around him, and he touches the trunk of the closest one. He can feel the soothing fuzz of the moss that covers it and the contours and ridges of the bark. The scent of the pines fills the air and brings that familiar sense of serenity—freedom.

For now, the spirit fox is free, as he should be.

Kurama presses his face against the moss and breathes in deeply, peaceful and at rest. The lichens tickle his ethereal white fur.

He paws at the ground to feel the flesh of the earth, damp and covered with a blanket of pine needles. The moon peers at him from between the trees, glowing and full amongst a sea of stars. Away from the city lights, they glitter and shine in the black sky. Kurama gazes back at them, glad to see old friends.

With a cathartic screech, he breaks into a thunderous sprint. On all fours he’s fleet of foot, effortlessly weaving through the mazes and thickets of the woods.

It’s been a long time.

He runs for what feels like an eternity, and his mind is clear for the first time in over a decade. No ruminating thoughts, no guilt, none of the weight of his human heart.

Tonight he sheds the ruse to run free.

The ambience of his surroundings make music, a symphony of the sounds of nature. He can feel the very heartbeat of Ningenkai every time his feet hit the ground. Faster and faster still, he bounds through the darkness and savors the ephemera of this moonlit night.

Kurama suddenly slides to a stop as a wall of rock—no, a mountainside—comes into view. It’s strangely out of place, though he can’t quite grasp the reason why. He looks to his left and right and sees an endless amount of stone.

There’s a dense patch of trees at the bottom of this mountain. He chooses a particularly wide one to be his place to settle for the time being. When he glances back up at the mountain, it towers over him, inconceivable in its size.

Nowhere left to run, Kurama curls up to lie down in the bed of pine needles underneath the tree. His tail wraps around him for warmth and comfort, red eyes slowly blinking closed as the whistling breeze and the soft rustling of the forest sing him to sleep.”

This is from a very long multi-chapter story that I’m hoping to begin posting by January. High romance Kurahi, mostly canon compliant, and a labor of love complete with original artwork! 💕

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Content warnings: CNC, dubcon, general violence, graphic sex, BDSM/kink/bondage/dom-sub dynamic

Ship: Kurama x Hiei (top Kurama & bottom Hiei)

It will be posted to both AO3 and ff.net (for the fandom olds).

#yu yu hakusho #kurahi #yyh #kurama #myfic.txt #fan fiction #fanfiction #fanfic #yyh fanfiction #Hiei #hiei jaganshi #kurama x hiei #kurahiei #youko kurama #shuichi minamino

[aspiring-writer-hidden-voice]

Save a Horse…Ride a Redhead

**Minors Beware SFW Warning**

“Hey, watch your left!” You shout, spurring your horse faster when a steer made to break formation. It’s been acting antsy for the last ten miles and it had seemed to wait for the hired hand to look away before making its move to escape. The poor green newbie was too slow which resulted in the large beast seeming to prance smugly away towards the nearby hill. There was no excuse for them either since their “references” had confessed to the lacking problem solving they lacked. Too bad, you’d had hopes that this one could at least make it to the next town before you had to fire them. “Damnit! Kid, you just earned yourself an early retirement once we reach that ridge ahead.”

Their expression was lost to you as a blur races past from the head of the herd, leaving behind a crimson streak, and with a disappointed bellow the steer rejoined the group. Atop of the mighty but softy horse who had been struggled to bond with any rider upon your ranch now radiated with authority sat a burly man with wide set shoulders and a toothy grin that could put any predator to shame. “No worries, boss, I got ‘em no problem!” He was an impressive example of the male species. Those muscles could barely be held back by the straining buttons of his shirt, which you’ve seen a few times thanks to those times he’s groomed the horses without upper clothing, and that butt on him was almost too much to take whenever he worked the hay dispenser while making it seem easy.

A sideways glare was sent to the former employee as they cursed your name beneath their breath yet before you could reprimand they were sent to the ground courtesy of a large fist. Amusement filled you when seeing the horse also toss in its two pieces by snorting loudly in their face and flattening its ears in warning when they made to come at you. It wasn’t until they had remounted then disappeared from view that your attention returned to the burly rider who made to return to his original position at the head. “Kiri, hold up.”

He visibly perked then moved beside you instead when another hand instead too his place. “Somethin’ I can do for ya, boss?”

Your hand briefly brushed along the copper horse’s neck, earning a nicker as its muzzle toyed with your boot. “See that Red Riot’s really taken a liking to you.”

“Oh, yeah, we go together like two peas in a pod!” The large man crowed with pride as the horse voiced its agreement with a shrill whiny. If he noticed your gaze wandering downward to follow a fine bead of sweat that slipped along his jawline before disappearing within the collar of his plaid shirt he didn’t react, yet little were you aware that all day long he’d been stealing glances from over his shoulder. Those carmine eyes locked on your own when a whistle sounded from ahead, a designated signal that a cow had gotten loose of formation, and the two of you were off after the surprisingly quick beast.

It took much longer than you would care to admit later, the sun had set by the time you’d secured the cow’s rope to your saddle’s horn, and honestly embarking in the middle of darkness was riskier than swimming in the county’s water reservoir since there were rumors of someone dumping illegal substances; your neighbor who liked to fish there told you a heck of a story the other night of how a fish he’d caught had two heads. The consecutive decision to set up camp was made once finding a secluded area. Campfire light danced, causing shadows to flicker across the horses’ hides, both saddles placed in preparation of alternating night watch between the two of you, yet a star high above your heads twinkled as if scheming the evening be full of something neither of you planned.

“How long have we known each other, Kiri?” You asked while handing him a can of beans that’d been tucked away within one of the bags.

“Oh, wow, let’s see…a few years now.” That grin appeared when he easily opened then placed it beside the fire to warm. “Thinkin’ it’ll be five this spring.”

Heat grew within your chest while smiling in preparation for the entertainment about to ensue. “Wow, so you really don’t remember us meeting way back in high school.” That definitely must have caught him by surprise, judging from the sudden choke from the large man who had been in the middle of taking a swig from the canteen. His eyes widened to the point where you thought they could pop out of his skull. One of your hands trailed absentmindedly rested upon his forearm, earning the smallest hitches of breaths from the man. It was missed by you since your attention was fixated upon the cellphone in your hand. “Just kidding, Kiri, you and I didn’t meet until after that twister that hit town. Looks like everyone else got to the checkpoint just fine so if we set out right at first light—”

“I quit.”

It was as if lightning had struck you as the phone fell to the ground and your jaw dropped, eyes locking on his and finding them full of seriousness. Pain erupted like a volcanic eruption when his words were repeated. They rang in the air like a church bell at a Sunday morning funeral. Tears prickled the backs of your eyes when his resolve remained unwavering despite the long seconds that passed as you waited for him to crack a smile or shout “gotcha!”.

Instead he never looked more like a statue with an expression as stony as marble itself as his gaze remained locked upon yours as he came closer. “After this job, I’m quitting.” The timbre of his voice deepened as your breath stalled when his hands rose to take light hold of your shoulders when anger flashed within your gaze. “(Y/n)—”

“Is working on my ranch too much for you? I warned what you were walking into the day of your interview so if mucking stalls, rolling hay, grooming the horses are too much for you than go back to the big bright twinkly city where slackers like—”

The sealing of his lips over yours effectively cutoff the rest of your sentence. To say you were confused was an understatement so honestly he should have expected the fight response from your body that resulted in sudden release in exchange for him to blink in bewilderment from the punch you’d landed upon his jaw.

Seething, you rose to your feet and stalked to the other side of the fire where you stared down at him through the rising flames which seemed to grow with each anger filled breath you exhaled. “The hell you think you’re doing?! First you tell me you’re quitting then you lay one on me?!”

His head fell backward, mumbling something about giving someone named Bakugo a slug later for giving him bogus advice, then straightened to fix you with a guilty expression. “I’m so sorry, (Y/n), I knew I should’ve done this my way instead. I just wanted to make this moment memorable—”

“Memorable?!” You were instantly across the space to plant yourself upon his chest, the ground meeting his back with a heavy impact from the combined weight of you two, the buttons of his plaid shirt literally flying in unimportant directions courtesy of both your hands taking fistfuls of its fabric. “You think dropping that bomb then trying to force yourself on me was the smartest move?! Eijiro, you owe me an explanation not as your former employer but as your friend!”

A bright red blush nearly matching his hair flooded his cheeks. “I don’t have a choice in the matter!”

“Is it money you want?! I can move things around!”

“No!”

Your eyes narrowed, raising his upper torso up high enough that your faces were inches apart. “Is it that slut down the county road who just got that botox job in her face and ass?”

Scoffing, he rolled his eyes. “Please, her face is so lopsided now it makes her botched boobs actually look level.”

“Right?!” Laughter bubbled up your throat before you could stop it.

“She’s nothin’ compared to you and I thought I had to quit if I wanted anything outside of a work relationship with you.”

Now it was your turn to choke and stare down at him in utter disbelief. Silence rang loudly, when it wasn’t interrupted by the faintest of crickets in the distant night outside of the campfire’s reach, until it was broken by his thick swallow when you brought him closer. You weren’t exactly a tomboy strutting around in overalls and thick boots, nor were you a girly-girl wearing stilettos and makeup, so to hear someone speak in such a way was a bit surprising. “Say that again without blinking.”

“No woman in the county can top you in wit, humor, or sexiness.”

Heat seared across your being a split second before the entire logical function of your brain shut down. “Ever since I saw you working with Red Riot for the first time was the instant I knew it wasn’t the horse I wasn’t imagine riding.” Self loathe filled you for a moment, unable to believe something so scandalous came from between your lips, until something akin to hope flittered within his gaze. “That wasn’t…I mean…Kiri—”

“Maybe you should show me how you really feel, (Y/n).” The corner of his mouth tilted upwards.

Every single fine hair across your body rose when feeling something slowly gain hardness against your jean covered groin when your legs which had managed to maneuver themselves on either side of his hips gave a squeeze. He had to at least be packing seven-no, definitely at least eight inches below that large belt of his! The arousal you’d been struggling to ignore ever since meeting the red haired stud now beneath you gushed forth like a steer out of a bucking chute. The lids of your eyes lowered as one of the logs on the fire snapped loudly. “You sure you can handle it, big boy? I am the holder of the longest record in women’s bull riding.” Your words only seemed to throw gasoline upon the embers within his gaze but you prevented him from stealing another kiss by leaning back slightly, seriousness clouding your resolve. “So you don’t want to quit because of something I did or for money?”

His brows furrowed, lips instead rising to brush against your forehead. “Of course not! I love this job and wanna keep it but I can’t go on hiding what I’ve been feeling since hearing your voice over the phone asking if I could help ya work with Red Riot over there. And then when I rolled up your driveway to find ya grooming (your horse’s name) it was as if I was about to meet a goddess!”

The flesh of your bottom lip caught between your teeth as ever fiber of your being was set aflame. Sure a few of the tacky hands had tried their hands at wooing their way into your pants with snarky comments or big talk but you have grown to know the kind of man he was. “Keep talkin’ like that and I can’t guarantee you’ll be capable of sleeping tonight.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Prepare to be ridden into the sunrise, Eijiro, and I don’t mean just for tonight.” You smirk while licking your lips as the hardened mass that was his member ground itself into your growingly moist jeans.

#mha x reader #mha x y/n #mha au #bnha au #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n #mha x you #bnha x you #eijiro kirishima #kirishima eijiro x y/n #eijiro x reader #Eijiro X y/n #kirishima x y/n #kirishima x reader #cowboy #save a horse ride a cowboy

[noodleblade]

Birds of a Feather, Part 3/?

Previous Part AO3 Link Next Part

Starscream should not have been surprised to find Laserbeak waiting outside his habsuite the following cycle. Before returning to his hab the night prior, he had directed her to do the same. The one-off instance of berth sharing was not one he was eager to repeat. While Laserbeak had seemed disappointed in this, she had not pressed and left. Starscream hoped she went back to the hab she shared with Soundwave but didn’t want to check the security camera to see if he had been proven wrong.

Whatever the case may be, he awoke to no alerts of sneaking drones in the medbay and an empty habsuite. Empty in more ways than just uninvited guests. 

Starscream sneered at his lack of furnishings. In the past, the hab had been cluttered. Skywarp had a horrible knack for collecting random bits and baubles and Thundercracker left half read datapads all about. Not to mention Starscream’s own projects had taken up any available surface. In their passing, the influx of items had stopped and within a couple of vorns, the clutter had dwindled away to the bare and empty room it now was. He had never really thought to pay attention to the current state of his hab but now that he had, his optics couldn’t help but mark all the ways it had lost any sort of life. 

It’s just a room , Starscream reminded himself bitterly as he left the hab and nearly ran into Laserbeak. 

If she sensed his bitter mood, she didn’t show it, greeting him with a chirp and bob of her helm. 

::Recharge well?::

No, he hadn’t. Like the cycle before, it had been fraught with restlessness and nightmares. His processor was eager to dig through old memory files, linking them to the ever-present grief that hung in Laserbeak’s field. 

‘That’s just sympathy, Star,’ Thundercracker’s voice echoed in his audials, followed by Skywarp’s teasing laughter, ‘ As if he knows what that is .’

Starscream scrubbed his faceplates, agitation pinching at his transformation seams. 

“I’m fine,” he spat out. 

Laserbeak whistled unbelieving but let the remark slide all the same. ::We have time to refuel and visit Soundwave before shift start.::

“Is this going to become a habit?”

Laserbeak hovered closer, optics piercing in what Starscream could only imagine as a glare. ::Until Soundwave is back.::

Starscream glared back. “I don’t have time to check on Soundwave every cycle.”

::Actually, you do.::

Following the comm, an attachment was sent showing a timetable, Starscream shift block highlighted and bookended with a refuel and a medbay check in. Starscream raised his optic ridge at this. 

“You know there aren’t going to be updates if we keep pestering Knock Out.”

Laserbeak let out an agitated burst of static. ::We need to make sure the medic stays on track.::

Starscream laughed hauntingly. Normally he would agree but, “Knock Out may exhibit bouts of lethargy and boredom but Megatron has marked Soundwave’s recovery efforts as the highest priority. Knock Out can be distracted easily but he’s hardly an idiot. He knows better than to anger our dear leader.”

Laserbeak considered this, rocking slightly in the air as she mulled it over. ::Can we still check on him?::  

There’s that ‘we’ again. The line between having Laserbeak’s loyalty and being chained to the drone was a tricky one to navigate with her turbulent emotions. He needed to remain in control, needed to keep firm just as much as he needed to concede to the cassette to get her unconditional trust. 

“Fine,” he finally muttered. “But I’m telling you, Knock Out’s not going to have any new information.”

Laserbeak didn’t seem to care, her field bursting with unrestrained gratitude. 

--

Starscream’s shift had gone without incident, mostly putting out fires and working on strategies to make sure their next run-in with the Autobots was a success. Playing clean up for the disaster that had been their last mission only allowed Starscream to analyze where everything went wrong to prevent fatal error from happening again. They couldn’t afford a repeat incident. 

His typical meeting with Megatron had been as unproductive and frustrating as ever, however, a new horrible realization had hit about halfway through the meeting as another smashed data pad was thrown, courtesy of the warlord. Without Soundwave’s subtle, quiet presence, there was no barrier between himself and Megatron and no one to put them back on track. What had been a simple issue of mining equipment repairs had derailed them into a screaming match and a sea of broken data pads and overturned chairs. 

Starscream was just happy to come out of the meeting unscathed. Even in the midst of his fury, Megatron was more than aware that having two of his High Command out of commission was a death sentence. A silver lining, he supposed, in the dark cloud that was Soundwave’s grave injury.

Agitation still rattled his frame as he stalked out of the main deck, leaving Megatron’s snarling words and his war room far behind. He paid the vehicons no mind as he marched through the wide doors. In his blinded rage, he hadn’t seen the minicon, nearly crashing into the hovering cassette for a second time that day. Thankfully, Laserbeak, much like her host, was far more observant.

The cassette dodged Starscream and hovered over his helm as the seeker glared. Starscream’s optics flared a menacing red that reflected on the mini’s smooth, slick plating. 

“What?” he snapped, unable to keep his frustrations of Megatron out of his tone.

Laserbeak made a lazy circle around him. Quiet and evaluating, another fun imitation of Soundwave. 

::You seem agitated. Perhaps a flight exercise is in order.::

Starscream stared at the minicon, optic ridges raised. He wouldn’t call it a secret that when stressed and overworked, Starscream liked to vent his frustrations with a quick fly, even if this miserable planet’s atmosphere was grating on his plating at too high an altitude. However, he didn’t think anyone had noticed, much less Laserbeak .

As if sensing his surprise, the cassette landed nimbly on his shoulder pauldron and comm’d, ::It's in your notes.::

“My what ?”

The cassette gave a nervous beep as she realized her error. She extended her wings to fly away but Starscream rested a heavy servo on Laserbeak’s back strut to keep the cassette firmly in place. 

“What notes?” Laserbeak was hesitant to respond but after an impatient tap of Starscream’s claws on her frame, she elaborated, ::Soundwave has notes on all mechs, included Starscream.::

It wasn’t surprising nor out of character for Soundwave. Starscream almost wanted to laugh at how Soundwave the action was. It was almost comforting that Soundwave’s presence still lingered on the ship despite his current inoperable status.

However, the very notion that Laserbeak was privy to this information was a little uncomfortable. Soundwave had his own thoughts and Starscream could guess they never quite framed him in the best light if their history had anything to say by it. He couldn’t imagine that as objective as Soundwave wanted to appear that his own opinions didn’t marr the notes he made of each and every mech. Even if the cassette was connected to Soundwave in a bond Starscream only vaguely understood, it unnerved him to know the biased information had seeped into the minicon’s processor. 

“Well,” Starscream drawled, “what do my notes say?”

Laserbeak gave another nervous series of beeps. ::Records indicate Commander Starscream’s mood and productivity increase with leisure flights.::

Starscream released Laserbeak and she wasted no time in taking flight to hover just out of reach from Starscream. 

“Did you take that directly?”

Laserbeak bobbed her helm in a stiff, nervous nod. 

Starscream couldn’t help the smirk that came to his faceplates. Nevermind that Soundwave had recorded him and probably had seen each and every time Starscream had snuck to the flight deck unauthorized. In truth, that was not so much a revelation but a reminder that the Third in Command watched everything and everyone. However, the very confirmation that Soundwave referred to him with his title in his notes was almost enough to dispel any lingering anger towards him. Even in the privacy of his own personal thoughts, Soundwave still was forced to acknowledge Starscream’s superiority. 

Oh, how that must grind his gears.

With a little pep in his pede, Starscream headed towards the flightdeck. Laserbeak hesitantly followed behind. Her confusion nudged against Starscream’s smug field, silently asking for a question Starscream thought left better unanswered. 

Instead, he redirected. “Following me?”

The confusion drifted off Laserbeak’s field and was replaced with a quieter, subtle admission of honesty. ::I miss flying with Soundwave. You will have to do.::

Starscream, in all his years of knowing Soundwave, had never known the mech to do anything leisurely. Then again, Starscream was beginning to realize there was quite a bit he didn’t know about Megatron’s silent shadow. In the scant few cycles since Soundwave’s fall, Starscream had learned more about the mech than he had in the last millennia they had served together. 

“Fine, whatever.” Starscream hardly cared if the minicon wanted to tag along. He wouldn’t admit the idea of not flying alone for a change was almost nice…even if he was only serving as a temporary replacement.

As they reached the flight deck, no one paid them mind. If anything, most of the crew kept their optics glued to their tasks, avoiding even looking in their direction. It suited Starscream all the same as he reached the opening of the deck, the swirl of clouds obscuring the horrid waste of a planet that lay below. 

Laserbeak was still hovering beside him, fully intent on following Starscream on this flight. Starscream let his optics drag over the little cassette’s drone form. Not exactly built for speed but if she wanted to try, so be it.

“Keep up,” was all the warning Starscream gave as he let himself fall from the platform, reveling in the rush of air that surrounded him as he dropped. Distantly, he could feel Laserbeak’s distress over the maneuver but it quickly abated as Starscream shifted into his alt and soared upward, past the flight deck and above the Nemesis. At that, the minicon took her cue to follow.

::Fancy flying.:: came Laserbeak’s comm. The attached subglyths were sarcastic in nature but Starscream could feel awe in the edges of her field as Laserbeak caught up.

::Just because your creator does everything minimally and practically, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to subject ourselves to such a dull existence.::

Starscream was surprised to receive laughter back, the minicon in agreement. 

::He is too uptight.:: she admitted, the subglyphs both fond and sorrowful. ::He needs a vacation.::

Starscream snorted derisively. ::To suggest such a thing might offline him for real.::

Laserbeak’s laugh echoed as Starscream took a sharp dive down, reveling in the wind streaming off his wings. He hadn’t been able to stretch his wings like this in a while and took the chance greedily; twisting, rolling and spinning in the air as his frustrations melted away.

::Show off.::

Starscream sneered playfully, his mood already lightening, ::Don’t be jealous. It’s unbecoming. Whatever will Soundwave think when he comes back.::

Laserbeak squawked in a loud affronted beep, but it was mostly eaten up by the wind as Starscream turned towards the sky and climbed, thrusters kicking to propel himself up, up, up. 

He continued to climb, the Nemesis and Laserbeak falling behind as he passed layer after layer of cloud cover until there was nothing left and Starscream was alone to the universe above him. The atmosphere was thin here, biting and brittle against his frame but Starscream pushed on a few nanokliks more before he cut his thrusters and forced stalled his engine. 

For one glorious moment, the universe and all of existence came still, Starscream frozen in place and time as his momentum came to a halt and gravity hadn’t quite kicked in yet. No Megatron, no war, no bitlet biting at his thrusters, no empty holes in ally’s chassis: nothing beyond the floating between flying and falling. It was so rare to find such stillness, such peace. Having it, even for a modicum of time quelled the flurry of stress in his spark.

But as quickly as it came, it was gone; time never truly stopped and pressed forward with unerring persistence. Starscream began to free-fall, the biting atmosphere rushing past him as he gained momentum and speed. He lazily engaged his engine as he turned his nose to the ground, letting gravity do the majority of work for him until the Nemesis came back in his slights. He pulled out of the dive, letting himself glide lazily around the ship. The minicon was quick to come back to his side, field awash in unrestricted delight. 

::Very reckless:: though there were no subglyphs of reprimand, rather absolutely wonder. 

::Very fun, unfortunately, not very suitable for your frame type.::  

If Laserbeak was dejected by this at all, she didn’t show it, simply content to remain close; floating on the updraft from Starscream’s wings and feeding off the unbound ease and tranquility in their intermingled fields. 

They made four lazy circles around the Nemesis before Starscream’s HUD notified him his fuel had dipped below 50%. With rations as low as they were, it would be truly a fool’s errand to deplete his levels anymore with no hope of his ration being able to compensate, not when he could be out on the field at a moment’s notice. Laserbeak must have picked up on the subtle shift in the energy and pushed their flight pattern back towards the Nemesis. 

In unison, both mechs returned to the flight deck. Starscream shifted to his root form to land on the deck elegantly. Laserbeak hovered beside him, unable to mask her admiration at the display. She circled Starscream in a buzzing sort of excitement that Starscream basked in. It had been a long time since he’d had such an… avid supporter .

:Refuel?:: Laserbeak inquired, probably noting her own lowered fuel levels. 

It was about time for their second ration so wordlessly, Starscream led the way to the refuel station.

In what had become routine, Starscream was quick to grab the two rations for himself and Laserbeak and did not linger in the mess hall. He went mostly ignored by the vehicons huddled at the various tables, but conversation once again quieted as he walked by, only to pick up when he was out of hearing range. This time, instead of ignoring it, Laserbeak inquired about it.

::Do you refuel alone every time?::

Whether the minicon intended the sting that came with the question, Starscream didn’t know. He still gritted his denta.

“I have no desire to waste my free time with scrap like them.”

::Not even the grounders.:: The subglyph of disdain was a clear indication of which grounders Laserbeak was referring to. Starscream felt the tension in his frame lighten in amusement at the cassette’s obvious dislike. 

“I don’t care much for the brute,” Starscream sneered as he reached his habsuite, keying in the entry to let them in. Laserbeak was barely able to conceal her delight in being granted entry. “But Knock Out has proven to be entertaining at the very least, if not a fine intellectual sparring partner.”

Laserbeak let out a long, drawn out beep which Starscream took as her sarcastic retort. 

“One does wonder how you fill so much hatred in such a small frame. Mass displacer? Does Soundwave know he’s fostering such an angry, grudging drone?”

Laserbeak let out the trilling, beeping laugh of hers as Starscream set one of the energon cubes on his desk for Laserbeak. He kept the one for himself in servo, sipping it as the cassette landed softly on the desk. 

::Soundwave likes my wit.::

Starscream let out a snort. Every little factoid Laserbeak slipped contradicted the emotionless, stationary mech Starscream had come to associate Soundwave with. Even his own experience could contradict this notion but it was much easier to view Soundwave as a passive bystander to the usual chaos on the Nemesis. If anything, Starscream was already aware of the hints of sass and sarcasm Soundwave exhibited every now and then. To know it went much deeper was like seeing through the cracks of his armored plating. Soundwave prided himself on being unreadable, that much was obvious. To know a few words from his precious cassette could reveal so much was gratifying. To know Starscream was now in the small number of mechs that knew this was even better. 

::Are they your friends?::

Starscream blinked, looking down to where Laserbeak was sipping her cube. It took him a moment to realize exactly whom she was referring to, the sudden shift in conversation unexpected. However, Laserbeak’s optics were bright and alert, watching curiously. 

Starscream raised an optic ridge at the minicon. It was an innocent, naive question, but Starscream could only picture Soundwave’s little notes and wondered how much value their spymaster could glean from a question like that. As much as he wanted to think of Laserbeak as a pathetic, sniveling whelp, there was no denying she was far more capable than Starscream had previously given credit for and she took after her carrier perhaps a tad too much. 

“How many Decepticons do you know that have friends?” he countered coolly. 

Laserbeak gave Starscream a long appraising look, clearly not impressed with his deflection of the topic. There was a silent point being made in the cassette’s gaze but Starscream ignored it, turning away to down the rest of his ration in one quick gulp. He barely tasted it as he emptied the cube and tossed it into the nearby receptacle. 

With no further comms coming from Laserbeak, the cassette’s attention turned to her own energon. Eager to let the conversation be forgotten, Starscream busied himself. Beside his berth were a stack of datapads he’d been pushing off reading. He probably would have continued to do so but the notion of having to face any more of Laserbeak’s pointed questions soured his tanks. He much rather diligently work than have any more spark to spark conversations for the cycle. 

He grabbed the first data pad in the stack: a mining report for Mine Beta. It was a dull read, but Starscream suspected it wouldn’t be long before he hit recharge. Between the long day, the flight, and the general mental exhaustion of having a small shadow, he suspected he’d only get through a few lines, if even.

“See yourself out. We’ll meet tomorrow,” Starscream waved off as he climbed into his berth, optics on the datapad. He trailed over the words, processor barely absorbing them. 

His request received no answer but he did hear the hab doors open and close with a soundly click.

--

There was energon everywhere, soaked into the ground beneath him and coating his plating, seeping into his transformation seams. Warm and sticky and so, so much of it. 

A pile of crumpled plating was before him, purple and blue amour in tattered, broken pieces. Dull, cracked red optics staring at nothing and everything. One helm was completely crushed, blue plating cracked down the middle to expose what little remained of a core processor. 

Ash rained down from the sky, a maelstrom of fire and destruction swirling around them like the eye of a hurricane. Burnt metal and electric fire sting his olfactory senses, optics slitting to keep themselves clear of the spinning debris. Bodies littered the battlefield, both familiar and not, but his optics were locked on the two pressed together in the center of the crater, sitting in a pool of crumbled earth and energon. 

Starscream reached for them. Square blue digits brushing against a shattered glass cockpit-

A nudge against his chin made Starscream’s optic online in an instant. 

The dark, stale air of the Nemesis greeted him. His spark had jumped up his intake as his optics darted across the ceiling of his hab. Slowly, his senses came to him in rolling waves.

There was no wasted battlefield. No bodies. No broken mechs. Slowly he raised his servos up, sharp clawed digits trembling before him. Chrome, not blue. 

::Oh good, you’re awake.::

Immediately Laserbeak’s helm filled his vision, the cassette firmly planted on his chassis. Tiny red optics stared him down.

“What are you doing here?” Starscream croaked. His vocalizer hissed, as if it had been strained. 

::You were experiencing a nightmare. I could feel your EM field outside the doors. You were crying-::

“ How- ” Starscream interrupted with a snarling hiss “-did you get in here?”

::Security override.::

Laserbeak did not remove herself from atop his chassis, rather settling in. Her tiny engine vibrated against him in a move Starscream assumed was supposed to be comforting. He wasn’t sure it achieved that, but it was disarming. At enough to stall his action in sending the cassette flying across the room. 

“Soundwave does not outrank me.”

Laserbeak was nonplussed by this. ::Megatron does.::

“ You have Megatron’s access codes?”

::Soundwave has them stored for emergencies.::

Starscream snapped his mouth shut, sinking further into his berth. 

In no way did this constitute an emergency. Even if he was in distress, there is no reason for the minicon to go so far for him. Any indignation Starscream had about Laserbeak entering his hab was conflicted by a puzzling feeling coiling around his spark. He couldn’t identify it, the emotion too foreign. He felt… exposed and there was little he could do to build his walls back up. He felt cornered, trapped. The weight of the minicon suddenly felt as if he had a tank pressing him down rather than the tiny drone.

It had just been a nightmare, a glitch in his recharge defrag sequences. It wasn’t a memory nor was it referential to an actual event. He had not been present when Skywarp and Thundercracker offlined. He had been stationed on the bridge, only able to watch their spark indications vanish from radar, their comms go silent. Whatever his processor was trying to work through, Starscream was tired of it using his dead trine as a method to do so. He’d mourned enough. 

::You are in distress.:: Laserbeak gently nudged his chin again with her helm. ::Shall I deploy relaxation protocols?::

The line of question swirled around his processor for a solid klik before he croaked out a, “What?”

In lieu of a response, Laserbeak sat up tall on his chassis. Her wings folded in, half transformed between her drone form and the stored cassette mode when she was docked in Soundwave. Faint purple biolights lit up across her frame as soft music echoed in his hab.

Starscream stared, unsure what was even happening. Laserbeak’s field was calm, pressing against Starscream’s like a blanket. The music was foreign to him. He could detect it as Cybertronian in nature but he had never found himself fond of the art. Sensing his curiosity, Laserbeak was all too happy to inform.

::A folk song from Tarn. The beats were later used in the revolution chants, though the lyrics were changed. The roots are ingrained in the working class, the rhythms free flowing and without the standardized formula that was used in the High Theaters of Iacon. The composition changed from player to player, as it was never formally recorded, but all followed roughly the same notes.::

“Why?”

::A lack of formalized education. Music was passed on from mech to mech through audial receptors rather than taught in institutions that specialized in functionality-::

“No,” Starscream interrupted again, but softer, less abrasive. “Why are you playing it?”

::Soundwave often finds comfort in music. I had hoped it would have the same effects for you. I selected a favorite of his. I have a large repertoire to select from if it is not to your taste.::

Starscream let the information sink in, offlining his optics in the process. Soundwave had always favored media based forms. Starscream could briefly remember when he had adapted to that of a music player. It should be no surprise those were rooted in a personal preference for the art form, just as Starscream’s own alt reflected his Vosian roots. 

It was another glimpse into Soundwave, perhaps one too personal to dig into further. 

::Would you like me to continue playing it?::

It was not…terrible. Actually, Starscream felt the dredge of panic melt away as his processor mapped out the notes into identifiable patterns. 

“You can keep playing it.”

Laserbeak chirped in delight, happiness blooming across her field.

::I’ll play my favorite next. It’s from Vos. You may know it.::

Starscream hummed in agreement. Thundercracker had enjoyed music, often playing it when he was working on projects in close proximity to Starscream’s own. 

Before he knew it, one melody drifted off and another one quickly took its place. The pattern repeated for several kliks, Laserbeak silently queuing up one after another. Some Starscream felt were familiar, some were completely foreign. There were some in the mix that Starscream suspected might even be Earth based, the instruments completely different than anything he’d heard before. 

He kept his optics offline as he felt himself drift off. His processor churned sluggishly, lazy. It brought up the image of Soundwave, stationed stiffly at the central console. Starscream wondered how many times the TIC had been absorbed in his secretive collection of melodies. An absurd thought flickered across his mind of Soundwave dancing , spindle arms and tentacles moving to the beat in strangely fluid motions. The vision dispelled as the next song drifted in, just as slow and soft as the first had been. 

Above him, Laserbeak settled against him, still in her half-transformed mode, but her field sleepy, melding in his own. He fell into recharge to the quiet, swaying rhythms, chassis warm and processor empty of any terrors. 

#soundstar #starscream #laserbeak #tfp #maccadam #transformers #my fics #birds of a feather

[s-creations]

26 Ways to Feel Mortal - G: Glove

26 Chapters based around experiences that newly arrived Geno experiences while trying to find the Star Pieces.

Fandom: Super Mario & Releated Fandoms, Super Mario RPG Rating: Teen and UP Audiences Relationship: Mario/Geno (Nintendo), Mario/Princess Peach (Nintendo) Additional Tags: Rating for Teen needed for later chapters, but shouldn't be to worrisome, I'll have warnings if I'm worried, Poly relations!, Main characters will always be named, Minor characters will arrive as needed, the chapters are not in a specific order, just meets the needs of the given word, please be aware of spoilers.

Warning: This gets a little intimate in a way. Nothing to extreme, promise! Just…be mindful.

Glove: (noun) A covering for the hand worn for protection against the cold or dirt and typically having separate parts for each finger and the thumb.

There should be nothing super intimate about seeing a bare hand. Geno had seen plenty of uncovered hands. He had them, Mallow held no coverings, Bowser clearly couldn’t wear them. Not everyone needed to wear gloves. Gloves didn’t seem to be a normal garment to wear.

So why. Why, why, why, why, why was Geno absolutely flustered seeing Mario’s hands uncovered. 

They were by the river side, Mario cleaning what was needed in the flowing water. Geno was sitting nearby, no one was really sure how his body would respond with being in contact with said liquid. Watching as Mario scrubbed a shirt of his. Gloves off and sleeves rolled up.

Geno had never felt so stiff in his entire existence. Eyes on the exposed skin that seemed to just shine from the water running down them. His insides felt like he was burning with how much heat was building up. Not in a bad way, but Geno had no idea what was causing this or how to fix the sensation.

“Geno?”

Said puppet was not pleased with how far he jumped hearing his name. Mario, now finished with his task, was walking over. Drying his hands off.

“Geno,” Mario said again, “are you okay? You seem tense.”

“I- What? Yeah, no, I’m…what?” Geno blinked furiously as his mind attempted to catch up with what was happening. 

Mario laughed softly, “Are you sure?”

“Um…I think so… I’ve never seen your hands before. I mean, yes, I’ve seen them. But I haven’t seen them without your gloves on.” Geno felt his energy’s hum picked up when Mario sat next to him. The puppet swearing his soul was whistling when Mario offered one of his hands out for him.

“Go on. I promise, it’s not that interesting.”

Geno absolutely wanted to argue that point. He cautiously reached out with his own hand to gently claim the one Mario was offering. Parts of the skin were thicker along the squishy pads of his fingers and his palm. Other areas, mainly on the back of Mario’s hand, were smooth, silky. Geno could even feel the small ridges that ran along the front of Mario’s hand.

Traveling further down, Geno passed the human’s wrist and to the exposed forearms. The puppet had felt Mario’s hair before, but it felt far different on his arm. It was rough, scratchy, but Geno enjoyed the texture, the feeling underneath his own hands. His fingers traced around scars that he came across. Each being a mark of Mario’s previous battles.

There was a bit of a startling moment when Mario’s free hand gently cupped around Geno’s cheek. The shock quickly fell away as Geno greedily leaned into the touch. Eyes closing as he enjoyed the contact, the warmth, the comfort Mario was offering him. He didn’t argue as Mario pulled his other hand free to rest against Geno’s other cheek. 

Geno couldn’t stop the small whine that escaped him. Reaching up to press his hands over Mario’s, shoulder dropping in release of tension he wasn’t aware he was holding onto still. Sinking further into the warmth Mario was offering.

“Enjoying yourself?” Mario whispered, no malice in his voice.

“Mhm…” Geno sighed back happily.

“Did you know you’re humming?”

“It’s probably my energy…”

“Energy?”

“My soul, I suppose I should say…”

“Oh…it sounds wonderful.”

Geno laughed softly, “Thank you.”

On his end, Mario watched with a warm smile as Geno relaxed further. Gently rubbing his thumbs along the puppet’s cheek 

“You’re welcome…”

#geno smrpg #geno #mario #genario #some heavy pairing stuff #mallow #princess peach #bowser #s-creations #fanfiction

[codgod-moved]

I've never written anything for mcyt but your Nether Tango has given me brainrot.

***

For a land thought to be a desolate waste, the Nether was often filled with sound. The crackle of flame, everburning on the porous wrack. The far off wail of a ghast. The strange hoots and grunts of the Piglin tongue, accompanied by the twisted gurgling of their zombified brethren.

Now, though, a chilling shriek echoed through the basalt columns and fungal woods. Three heads searching in all directions for it's quarry. Rattling of bones, it's trailing spine lashing back and forth.

A few quiet, crunching footsteps. Then the whistle of a blade through the humid air. The Wither screamed as the sword cleaved it's body in twain before erupting in smoke.

Tango, prince of these wretched demesnes, reached into the pile of ash and retrieved the glowing star. Against his gloved hands it was still warm, despite the cold bones of the beast he'd slain. Then, with a tight nod, he dropped it into his pocket. At home he had thousands more, a pool of starlight he could dip his hands into and pour out like shimmering coins. He didn't know why he hunted the Withers anymore. Tradition, perhaps.

He made the long trek across the wastes to his home, a palace of blackstone spires. He traced the veins of gold in the stone with one finger, the ring of metal on metal as his gilded claws caught in the ridges. He sighed.

There was a grunt from behind and the prince turned. One of his elite Piglin guards stood at attention, his black uniform and golden pauldron glittering in the dim light. Tango inclined his head.

"The portal has been lit, sire." the guard announced gruffly. His cloven hand tightened on the handle of his golden axe. "We sent through an advanced guard, but they have not returned."

"Not returned?" Tango asked, turning his attention fully on the brutish guard. He'd heard the legends about the world beyond the portal. Of the monstrous creatures that lived there, and spread the virus that had claimed swathes of his subjects. "You don't think the virus - "

"We can't be sure, sire. But I daren't send anymore Pigs through and take that chance," the guard answered.

Tango thought for a moment, then nodded.

"I'll go myself," he announced. He reached instinctively for the comfortable handle of his sword.

"Do you think that wise?" the guard asked, concern wrinkling his scarred snout. Tango shook his head, already striding towards the corridor leading to the armory.

"I'm a prince, what could possibly harm me?"

---

Some time later, Prince Tango stood before the portal. For ages it had stood, obsidian pillars broken and weeping violet tears. A thing of the past, long abandoned. But now it glowed, purple light scattering against the black and red around him.

Tango tugged on his chestplate a bit nervously, unaccustomed to the weight. He'd donned the relic armor, plated in ancient debris. His sword also glinted with an edge of black and gold. His loyal guards stood just a bit behind, watching in apprehension.

"Don't come after me," Tango admonished. "I won't subject any of you to that virus." Without waiting for a reply, Tango stepped through the portal. Swirls of violet filled his vision, and then he was falling.

For a moment he thought nothing had happened. All around him were the colors of flame - vibrant reds and oranges. It wasn't until he realized that a field of blue stretched across the horizon, brighter and more vibrant than anything from a warped forest could ever be. Entranced, he stepped from the portal, staring at the cloudless sky.

There was a clicking sound.

"Care to explain where you've just come from, partner?" a drawling voice said.

Tango froze. He'd expected many things from the mythical overworld, but an intelligent creature, capable of speech? Slowly he turned his head.

A man stood behind him. Not a pig, but like Tango. He had golden hair that stuck out from a brown leather hat. In his hands he held an object made of dark metal and polished wood. After a moment of silence, the man frowned and advanced with the object, pointing it's circular snout at Tango. "Well?" he demanded. "You'd best be answering to the Sheriff, partner. I'm the law about these parts."

"Oh." Tango shook himself, and swept a low bow. "I am Tango."

"Tango? Ain't that some fancy footwork dance?" the man asked, squinting. After a moment, though, he lowered the weapon.

Tango wasn't used to being unrecognized. All of the denizens of the Nether knew him on sight and by name.

"My apologies - " he said, inclining his head. "I am Prince Tango of the Nether -"

"Prince?" the Sheriff paused, then holstered his revolver. He knew princesses and emperors, gods and witches. What was one more wandering royal? He squinted again, then tugged gently on the brim of his hat. "Well then. Howdy, Prince Tango. I'm The Sheriff of these parts." He flicked the golden star on his vest to punctuate his statement.

Tango looked curiously at the Sheriff's badge for a moment, then brightened. Scrambling in his pockets, he retrieved the nether star and affixed it to his chestplate. He grinned.

The Sheriff blinked. A Nether star. The man had casually whipped out a Nether star and was wearing it like a boutonniere.

"Prince… of the Nether, you say?" he drawled, a slow smile sliding across his face. "Well then, Prince Tango. Welcome to Tumbletown."

oh my god I LOVE THIS

i am so bad at giving compliments on writing but hfgfhfggffhggf i like the it 👍

#.asks #nptau #.fave #tango would love his piglin subjects i think #and love the bit with the sheriff badge and the nether star that’s so funny #others.doc

[thebekashow]

Hey Bobba I got a question. ' ^ '

Do you like books? (Am asking this cuz in a bit imma read a book I currently got intrest in called The Stars Of Whistling Ridge )

Yup, he loves books. (Got two bookshelfs full of em)

These are two of his favorites!

#thebekashow #bob velseb #art #spooky month au #bob velseb au #spooky month bob velseb #spooky month #ask bob velseb #ask bob the chef #q&a #neko bob velseb #neko #lunaglitchercc

[hoodie-prince-kid]

Huey (rant invitation)

When Port Prisma got the paint stars stolen from the fountain, Huey was what emerged from the fountain's emergency system. He introduced himself by saying "let's get burgers, your treat" before letting Mario drain his color in order to fight off a stray shy guy in the town. At the ends of the game, after everything theyve been thru, Huey thanks Mario just before the final battle, and then in the battle turns himself into a card to become a solid object again, which made it go full circle. As the guardian of the paint fountain in Port Prisma, he realized his job wasnt to get the paint stars, but to get rid of the black paint that Bowser inadvertantly created. He told the others he would be right behind them as they escaped the castle, which was a lie, and proceeded to squeeze the paint out of the *entire castle*.

He's never seen the ocean before, but he loves it.

He's never been to a circus but he was so excited to go.

He's bad in front of crowds. (He tried a tin can impression and no one liked it [i liked it], said it would kill back at the recycling plant which?? Are there other living inanimate objects like Huey??? Hello?????)

He "speaks Draggadon" but he hasnt used it since college and his Draggadon speak is just SIMPLE SENTENCES IN ALL CAPS. (He also told the Draggadon "WE LOVE YOU.")

He's been to college, apparently.

He loves paint and values friendship.

He called shenanigans when the giant coin in the Mondo Woods was only worth one coin upon being picked up.

He was excited to see the fossil at the excavation site and told Mario to go ahead, he'd catch up.

He started a "if anything happens i will protect you" speech just before a chain chomp rolled in out of nowhere and interrupted him (i guess that was foreshadowing, looking back).

He steams and whistles like a tea kettle when he's mad.

He finds Toads adorable but also mumbled to Mario "Why can't we ever meet anyone normal?" upon meeting the lighthouse Toad.

His 3D model uses more triangles than the entirety of Super Mario 64.

He can smell paint stars (the green ones smell "minty fresh", apparently).

He wanted to fight at the coliseum but realized Mario would be the one doing the fighting and sounded it a bit disappointed. (Now thst i think abt it, they could very much have called it "The Colorseum". Missed opportunity.)

He makes bad paint puns and tries to use one to add levity to the situation after the battle with Kamek.

Mario had to whack him with a hammer several times (only once did he get truly upset abt it, in which case he was freaking out abt i mini goomba stuck on his back and Mario really had no choice ["You BETTER not have dented my can, fur face" will live rent free in my memory forever.])

His handles come apart which is something ive never seen a bucket or paint can be able to do but clearly it was solely so they could give him an equivalent to hands because he can clap and "dance".

He absorbed Bowser's black paint at Sunglow Ridge and told Mario to close his eyes and "never speak of this again" (i guess thst was foreshadowing too huh).

His little mask thing changes colors based on his emotions.

He sank into quicksand once and i panicked and when I finally got to him the game said "Huey's not breathing!" but we whacked him with the hammer and he was fine, just full of sand and stating that it's a good thing paint cans dont need to breathe.

Clearly has a sense of fairness, called out the scam at Bloo Bay Beach and got mad when the "legendary mountain sage" turned out to be a cardboard cutout.

Saved Mario from falling in lava and shouted "I got you, bud!"

If you lose a boss battle without the right Thing card he'll pop up on the game over screen and tell you.

He's so encouraging and cheerful, lots of times he cheered Mario on when he was struggling, including in the boss battle.

Apologized for forcing Mario to come with him to recover the paint stars which no, he didn't, Peach told Mario to go and Mario always listens to Peach because he loves her. Plus Mario's a hero and he'll always do what's right for the greater good but now that i think about it probably does need a break.

Thinks the Toad Rescue Squad scarves are "choice".

Wants to buy Birdo's album.

Thats all i got rn and already i know it's a lot so here ya go jdbsndbdb-

[istherewifiinhell]

Look at my turtles boy

(turtle comics turtle comics turtles comics)

[images description and alt text is the same]

classic mirage comics! now with colours (hard to say how to feel abt them being coloured, also they only credit the studio who did it not individual artists. sad)

[Tales of TMNT #6 pencils by Jim Lawson, ink by Ryan Brown, colours by Digikore Design Limited.] Boxy chunky turtles with big cheeks/beaks, and have tails.

ID: Mikey (with a red mask) slumped against a brick wall, in a daze, cartoon stars over his head. END ID

and how do we tell Mikey apart when his weapons aren't visible? Well. O.o

[TMNT #45 Art by Dan Berger, Colours by Digikore Design Limited] Rounder turtles with the big beak/cheeks, defined eye ridges and no pupils for the most part. Art has heavy, textured inks. Collection of Mikey's where no matter the expression he's making one eye is bigger than the other.

ID: 1. Smiling saying "Wicked cool dudes! Let's party!" 2. Two panels where he has one of his brothers on his shoulders. He's whistling then says, "I'm starving! I sure could go for a... Taco!" 3. A small drawing, walking behind his brothers, arms open in a question saying "Are we almost there, Papa Smurf?" 4. Looking surprised saying "Awwww Party Poopers!" 5. Smiling wide, looking to the side, one arm up. 5. Smiling threateningly, gesturing to himself with one hand, and pointing out with the other. Saying "It's showtime!" 7. Looking concerned/nervous, thinking "Whoa. Heavy deja-vu. This is really strange" END ID

Bonus Donnie's <3

1. Scratching his head with his tongue out and thinking "If I insert an electro-magnetic repulsor-wave mechanism, I'll bet that..." 2. Leaning back from someone yelling at him and his brothers. Also doing the one small eye one large eye expression.

More recent turtles.

[TMNT Universe #6-9 Art by Brahm Revel] More Oval, smooth shapes, 3 toed turtles, with large carapaces. Art in warmer pinkish and purple skewed pallet, with blocks of black shadow.

ID: 1. Donnie, with a strapy belt, a shoulder bag, and many lense'd googles, jumping out a window away from enemies. 2. Mikey sitting on a park bench feeding birds at night. 3. Mikey bowing with one foot back and arms to the side. He's surrounded by downed enemy's and a person he saved, who looks scared of him. END ID

GIRL TURTLE? Can I offer u some fucking GIRL TURTLE.

[TMNT: Jennika II #1 "Monsters" Art by Brahm Revel] Round head lanky turtles, with big flat teeth. 3 toed again. Collection of Jennika's, a turtle with a yellow head band, hand and foot wraps, black pants, and a loose top that covers the front of her shell.

ID: 1. Jennika looking distressed, her hands out in a placating manner. She's saying "I'm sorry... I'll get the... Sorry!" 2. In an action pose, kicking a gun out of a bat mutants hand. She yells "Don't" and the bat mutant says "Ah!" There's a large "Bang!" sound effect by the gun. 3. Her eyes wide and mouth wobbly as she peeks over a roof saying "Jeez... This one's big!" 4. Two panels of her yelling at someone, gesturing emphatically to herself, and then the other person, as chaos unfolds in the background. END ID

FASHION TURTLES. behold their robes. just dont worry about the how of it so much... (-> deeply interested in the how of it)

[TMNT #116 (IDW) Art by Sophie Campbell, Colours Ronda Pattison] Round turtles with thick limbs and slight snout bumps. Various turtles in clothes.

ID: 1. Mikey opening a door and rushing into a room. His mask around his neck like a kerchief, in a grey sleeveless hoodie and ripped jeans. 2. Lita, a very young turtle with white scales and a pink mask tied in a bow. She wears a yellow tank top/dress with a star on it. 3. Donnie smiling pleasantly, hands in his pockets, and his mask around his neck like a scarf. He wears a red flannel with the sleeves rolled up and large patched beige pants. 4. Jennika in punk gear, black pants and shirt that are more rips than not, and a studded leather jacket. She wears her mask like a headband and has black eye makeup. END ID

Ohhh and bonus, April, this is a reference to "April's Ballad" from Coming out of Their Shell (sponsored by Pizza Hut). So, validation for doing that...

ID: April, with long curly red hair sits on a couch in an beat up apartment, singing "...They told me / You can count on us..." END ID

annnnnnnd two last Mikey cuties...

[TMNT #56 (IDW) Art by Mateus Santolouco Colours by Ronda Pattison] Smaller round turtles with snout bumps. They're wearing clear full head breathing apparatus with air tanks on their backs.

ID: 1. Mikey looks at Raph excited saying "Raph! Pirates with mutagen! Do ya think--". Raph cuts him a look saying "Shhh... Mikey! Don't interrupt!" 2. Mikey looking abashed, two pointer fingers together saying "Oh, yeah. Sorry, dude." END ID

Thus concludes the turtle look book (just kidding lol these were from two best of collections, 3-4 issues long. I have a full run massive multi volume hardcover to read too....)

#some shit #turbles... #uhhhh if ur here from the. many many taggable words that are in this from search. [wave] #dont know whats going on over all in a lot of these but!!! soooo intriguing to read. #also. trippy to see hand lettering in the old mirage comics! like!!! a person sat here and wrote these letter!! wow!!! #god. so. so much. so much things. to enjoy. to think about. rotate. so many things implied. that i wanna learn about #so many. good good turtles to look at..... (tears already in my eyes) #turtle fashion digest

[hear-feel-think]

FfxivWrite2022 | #23 - Pitch

Rating: G

Haurchefant x WoL, pure fluff.

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It is pitch black when he wakes you. The middle of a moonless night, with little starlight filtering in through the heavy curtains. You feel the familiar caress of his hand on your cheek first, followed by the soft croon of his voice. "Wake up, my love," he says. "I have something to show you."

You blink blearily, clearing the sleep from your eyes. Haurchefant's smiling face in front of you is the first thing you see, followed by his crouching, armor-clad figure. He was on watch tonight, you remember. Reluctantly leave the warmth of the heavy quilt, and follow his eager directions to dress warmly and comfortably, but quickly. When you're dressed, he wraps a blanket around your shoulders for good measure, and leads you outside.

Haurchefant's black chocobo is patiently waiting, hitched to a post. "Should I call my mount?" you ask.

"No need," he assures you, ushering you into the saddle. "My old girl is strong enough to carry two." He climbs on behind and reaches around you to take the reins, flicking them and whistling an instruction. As the chocobo takes to the sky, you are grateful for the extra layer of blanket around you, and the warmth of your lover behind you to block the wind. He doesn't fly too high, keeping you well beneath the ridge of the mountains. "Close your eyes," he whispers in your ear. "It's a surprise. No peeking!"

You cover your eyes with your hands, confident that he will keep you steady as he lands the chocobo. Sure enough, you feel her coming to a rest, and Haurchefant dismounting behind you. He helps you down, reminding you to keep your eyes closed, and wraps an arm around your shoulder. "Can I look yet?" you ask.

"Not yet," he says, leading you a few steps away and turning you a few degrees to the North. "All right, now!"

You open your eyes, and the moonless night is lit up, not just with thousands of twinkling stars, but with the bright greens and blues of the aurora borealis. The colours stretch and flutter across the sky like silk scarves flowing behind a dancer. You gasp. "It's beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as you," he says. It's so cliche, but he never misses a chance to say it. You nudge him playfully. He chuckles. You stand there, him with his arm around you, you leaning against him and clutching your blanket tightly around you. Sometimes you whisper sweet nothings, sometimes you talk about deep and personal subjects, and sometimes you fall silent to enjoy the majesty of the lights over the natural beauty of the Coerthan highlands. And you stay there until you are too cold and tired to stand on the mountainside any longer, and he returns you to your cozy bed.

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#ffxiv #heavensward #haurchefant #haurchefant x wol #ffxivwrite2022 #hey look i wrote a fic! #fanfic

[msexplorer]

To Love A Girl Who Wanders You must know that her soul yearns for movement. The beat of a drum, the whistle of a train and the summit of a mountain are all the same language to her, urging her to move. Your voice and your touch, too, can speak the language of movement. That is the second thing you must know. If a girl who wanders loves you, her soul will sway to the cadence of your words. A girl who wanders sees poetry in everything, from the magnificence of the stars to the dance of a blade of grass. If you love her, you must realize that you are poetry as well. Write her haikus in kisses and limericks in tiny gestures. She will understand what you mean. If you love a girl who wanders, run beside her. Not ahead of her or behind her, for both of these will quickly try her patience, but beside her. Do not follow or lead her to the highest peak or the tastiest food truck in sight; rather, join your paths and walk with her. Match your stride to her, and she just might do the same. This is a girl, a woman, a being who is accustomed to following her instincts and making her own way. She probably travels alone, makes friends easily on the road (bidding them farewell just as easily), and ignores the ‘Do Not Enter’ sign. Compromise does not come naturally to her. Be patient. The constant give and take of a relationship will take time for her to learn, but when she does, you will find her more generous, more compassionate than you could have imagined. For a girl who wanders has made a study of empathy. She is made of water. She knows fluidity and change. If you love a girl like this, you must discover the secret of holding her in your eyelashes, for she will slip through your fingers. Sometimes the water in her will spill over. You don’t have to ask why. Your presence is enough. To love a girl who wanders, realize that wanderlust is a true affliction. When her gaze is unfocused and her thoughts far away, know that she dreams not of other people, but of other worlds. Dream with her of caravans in the desert and of sea journeys centuries ago. Help her plan road trips, buy plane tickets, or even build a tent in the living room when there are no better options. Her craving for adventure cannot be suppressed for too long, and if you love a girl who wanders, you will be on the seat beside her when it is time to go. To show this girl your love, bring her wildflowers and found objects—she will appreciate the journey that went into their gathering. Dance with her whenever you can. Share her joy as she spins, gypsy skirts flying outward. Listen to her stories, for she will have many—both true and remembered—and save your own in a carved hollow in your mind for when she asks you to tell her one. To love a girl who wanders, be prepared to say yes. Yes to adventures. Yes to treasure hunts and hopeless quests. Yes to a lifetime of searching. Do this, and she will, quite possibly, say yes to you. A girl who wanders may not have many roots. You must offer her the depths of your heart and soul in which to plant sturdier ones. To act as soil and sustenance for another person’s spirit is both a privilege and a responsibility— never take it lightly. If you love a girl who wanders, only give her what she can carry—nothing bigger than your heart. Anything larger would be a waste. Accept her need to seek—strive to comprehend it, even—and comfort her when the leaves fall across her path and she feels lost. Let her wander through the labyrinth of your mind, and marvel at the beauty she finds there. Hold her in your eyelashes, the lines of your hand and the ridges of your forehead, and wander with her.~ ~Toby Israel